


Unlike Any That Have Come Before

by shadesofhades



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_bigbang, M/M, Outing, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/pseuds/shadesofhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean discovers Sam's birth defect the first time he ever finds the courage to touch his fifteen year old brother sexually, and although, at the time Dean tries to play it cool, he soon realizes that Sam has no idea that anything is different about him. After extended research on the subject, Dean realizes he needs to confront his father about the problem. But the thing is, how is he suppose to tell John without actually telling him anything, and how long can he keep Sam in the dark about the whole thing? Things quickly unravel as the truth comes out and Dean's carefully laid plans fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *This story features a birth defect called hypospidais which some people may find disturbing.*

Dean's tongue is in Sam's mouth, his fingers drifting over Sam's erection when he first notices it. The little hole that he's so used to on his own cock is mysteriously missing from Sam's, the slit on the tip sealed over. He doesn't panic, doesn't draw away from Sam's mouth, doesn't react at all, just sweeps his fingers down the base, the pads of his fingers searching for what he's looking for, finally feeling it on the underside of Sam's cock. Okay, that is definitely not right, but Dean's not going to give the kid a complex.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sam asks, pulling away from Dean's mouth to look at him, and Dean doesn't even realize that he's stopped kissing his little brother, because his eyes are on Sam's cock, his fingers circling the hole on the underside of it.

"Nothing," Dean says, quickly catching himself, forcing himself not to stare at Sam's cock, twitching happily his hand. "I just wanna suck your dick is all," he tells Sam with a wide grin, secretly congratulating himself on his smoothness as he pushes Sam down on the bed and leans down to take the head in his mouth, wondering if it feels the same for Sam as it does for him.

It obviously does, because as Dean's mouth is slipping down Sam's shaft, throbbing hot in his mouth, Sam's fingers are clutching at his hair. Dean knows he's good at giving head. Sam's not exactly the first guy he's ever gone down on. Not that he doesn't like girls, but there's something about the way a cock fills his mouth, heavy and swollen, growing harder as he runs his tongue along it, sucking softly. Maybe Dean has a bit of an oral fixation, but no one's ever complained so far, so Dean doesn't think it really matters. And judging by Sam's moans as his tongue glides over that little hole on the underside of his cock, flicking softly across it as it leaks pre-come, Dean doubts that Sam's going to complain about it either. In fact, Sam's muttering his praises at Dean as he comes, spurting against his tongue in a most unusual way, and really, he's amazed that Sam's lasted as long as he has. Dean knows he's good, and he knows for a fact that he's the first person to ever touch Sam like this. And he's done feeling guilty about that. Now he just wants Sam to feel good.

When he swallows, he lets Sam's softening cock slide from his mouth as he looks up at him, at the big dopey grin spreading across Sam's young face, dimples showing as he stares down at Dean with orgasm-glazed eyes.

"No one's ever sucked me off before," Sam finally says after a moment, his voice gravelly and deep, and Dean has to paw at his own erection through his jeans at the words.

Sam obviously notices the bulge in Dean's pants and the way his fingers are rubbing over it, because he's sitting up and licking his lips, staring down at it.

"Can I...?" He trails off, his fingers already working at Dean's zipper before Dean can say anything, but he comes back to himself and bats Sam's hands away, because after that, he doesn't want Sam to see his cock, doesn't want Sam to know that maybe he's a little bit different than he is.

Sam sits back and pouts at Dean, wide puppy dog eyes staring at him under long eyelashes, his fingers drifting over Dean's erection, straining his jeans.

Dean throws his head back at the touch, even the smallest sensations drawing out pleasure from his throbbing cock, so hard now that it's almost painful.

"Ah, just like that, Sammy," he murmurs happily, as Sam's fingers rub against him; the friction of his brother's hand and his mouth, ghosting over his, hot and wet, sends him over the edge much quicker than normal. His jeans are soaking through with semen, hot against his skin in a sticky and uncomfortable mess, the wetness clinging to the hair of his balls. He shifts, and groans before he pushes himself off the bed to find a new pair, Sam's happy little laughs coming from behind him as he stands up to retrieve a pair from the floor.

The wet spot on the front of his jeans is sticking to his front as he unzips them and quickly slides them down his legs, kicking them off his feet before pulling the new pair on as fast as he can, before Sam can get a good look at his cock, because Dean wants to protect Sam from knowing how different he is. When he's all zipped up, he turns around and grins down at Sam, who's sprawled bonelessly across Dean's bed.

"I don't know about you, but I'm always tired after an orgasm," Dean says with a stretch and a scratch of his belly. Sam just groans in response and scoots over, so Dean can slide in beside him.

The light clicks off and the bed dips as Dean slides into the bed, Sam's arms instantly coming out to circle around his waist.

"Sam…" He says in warning, body half-way lowered to the bed, frozen there. And he can just make out the grin Sam flashes him before his arms move from around Dean.

"All right. No cuddling, Dean. I promise."

Dean gives a little grunt as he lies down on the bed, next to his brother, eyelids drooping almost instantly as his head hits the pillow. He's on the edge of sleep, just about to tip over to the other side when Sam's arms come around his waist again, Sam burying his face in the crook of Dean's neck, and he thinks, just this once, he'll let Sam have his way as he slips off into unconsciousness.

The next morning, Dean wakes, his naked belly sticking to the bed sheets, and cold air blowing across his soft cock. It's not the first time Dean's woken up like this, his pants undone, the bed sheets sticky with his come, he's a young man with a healthy sexual appetite after all, but this is the first time he's ever woken up next to Sam like this.

He opens his eyes, afraid that Sam might be awake, might have seen, noticed the difference between them. After all, Sam is a curious kid. Except Sam isn't in bed with him. The sheets next to him are cold and look like they haven't been slept in for a while. He sits up abruptly, tucking himself back into his pants as he quickly scans the room for his younger brother.

And Dean's eyes come to rest on him, on the other side of the bed, Dean's used jeans from the night before pressed against his nose, his cock in his hand, looking very much like a deer caught in the headlights. Sam gives a little squeak and drops the jeans as if they burned him. But they don't hit the floor, they catch on Sam's hand on the way down, the hand still wrapped around his impressive cock, which Dean can't stop staring at because the kid is fifteen and nearly puts his to shame.

Sam's scrambling to tuck himself back in and zip up his pants when Dean's feet hit the bedroom floor. He's sticky and cold and really just wants to get the fuck out of these pants and into something else, but his other semi-clean jeans are on the floor at Sam's feet with semen crusted inside, much like these pants will probably be in an hour.

"Don't worry, Sam, it's not like it's anything I haven't seen before," Dean tells him, even though before last night, he hadn't seen it before. Not really. Because Sam's is different than anyone else's cock that he's ever seen, and that worries him. Sam must have caught on, Dean thinks, because he can't stop staring at the crotch of Dean's jeans with a strange look in his eyes and Dean can't help but think that maybe he knows.

Dean's not really sure what to say to him, to tell him that it's okay, because in reality he has no clue if it really is or not. Sam seems healthy in every other respect, but Dean can't get over the oddity of his little brother's dick.

There's an awkward silence between the two of them, and Dean wonders if maybe Sam really did take a peek at Dean while he was sleeping. Dean's staring at him hard, trying to figure it out, while Sam stares intently at his cock through his jeans as if trying to burn a hole in the offending garment with his eyes.

"You came on yourself," Sam finally says, after a moment, his cheeks burning red, when he realizes that Dean has caught him staring.

"Not like you've never had a wet dream, Sam. I've washed your sheets more than enough times to know." Dean stands up, on the opposite side of the bed from Sam, and walks over to his duffel, spewing clothes out onto the floor of their bedroom.

He pulls out a pair of decently clean sweat pants and figures they'll have to do, because they're about the only thing he owns right now that isn't covered in semen, or just plain standing up on its own from the filth embedded in it. He changes quickly, then turns to Sam, who's moved to his own duffel, pulling a clean shirt over his head, eyes never leaving Dean's body.

"Come on, we need to wash the sheets before Dad gets home. He'll be back any minute now." And it's not like he really needs to wash them lest Dad see, because he swallowed Sam's come last night, and only his own is splattered across the white sheets. Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't want Dad to know that even at nineteen he still has wet dreams intense enough for him to cream the inside of his jeans. Or maybe it's just the deep-seated paranoia that comes with sucking your little brother's cock in your bed while your dad's away. Like maybe he'll be able to see it in the come stains left on the rough sheets. Which is a completely fucking ridiculous thought, but he can't stop it after it's there.

Because he's supposed to be taking care of Sammy, not fucking him stupid. And in a way, sure he could argue that blowjobs are taking care of Sam, because he's a teenage boy with needs, right? But Dean's pretty sure that Dad wouldn't see it the same way. That's what he's been telling himself since the first time Sam kissed him though, because there was really no other way he could justify it to himself without the guilt killing him. It was awkward at first, of course it was, because kissing your little brother isn't normal and it's not supposed to be perfect and right, but that doesn't mean it didn't get better, less weird to them in time. Their little nips and soft touches of lips had turned into full out make-out sessions pretty quickly, and soon, it wasn't uncommon for them to kiss on the couch for hours until Sam came in his pants and Dean retreated to the bathroom to take care of his own problem. Because he knew that even if they could make-out guilt free, touching Sam's cock or letting Sam touch his was going to change something fundamental in their relationship, something that wasn't supposed to change, that could never be changed back.

And it _had_ changed. Just not in the way Dean had anticipated. He's always thought that Sam was the normal one of the family, or at least as normal as one could be and still want to fuck their big brother, but he stands corrected. Because apparently he's been looking in the wrong place the whole time. It wasn't in the obsession with revenge, or the need for the safety of a weapon, but rather nestled between Sam's legs. Of course he can't tell the kid that it isn't normal. Sam has enough problems as it stands. That's assuming he doesn't already know, because Sam's a smart kid. Straight-A student, he can speak Latin like it's his native tongue, and he's always reading, gaining even more knowledge. Hell, Dean doesn't really know how he could _not_ know he's different from other guys. After all, they teach sex-ed in the public school systems these days, don't they? That must have been one awkward day for Sam.

"Earth to Dean... Hey! Space cadet! You there?" Sam's hand is waving in front of Dean's face, startling him out of his trance as he realizes that he's been staring at Sam's crotch for a good while now, his shirt pulled half-way down his ribcage. He should muster up the decency to look ashamed at the very least, but he just had Sam's cock in his mouth last night, so really, staring at Sam's crotch shouldn't be that weird, right? After all, everyone knows that a guy thinks about sex every seventeen seconds. And well, maybe Dean thinks about it a little more than the average guy, which gives him a perfectly logical explanation for his staring problem. Except he feels a little flutter of guilt in his stomach at writing it off as such.

"Sorry, I must still be tired," he mutters after a moment, prying his eyes away from Sam and yanking his shirt over his flat stomach. He walks over to the bed and rips the sheets off in one fell swoop, wadding them up along with his jeans as he gathers up things for the wash, and turns to look at Sam. "Anything to add to the pile?"

And Dean's never been so glad to get out of that room in his life, wanting time alone to stop contemplating the wonder which is Sam's cock and maybe do some research. Because if that's not normal, Dean wants to know how to make it better, if only so Sam can have the normal he so desperately wants.

So later, Dean tells Sam he's going to the bar, but ends up at the library, which is lame, but Dean's really curious now and itching for information.

Dean looks through every book they have on the male genitalia, and Dean's pretty sure the librarian behind the counter thinks he's a raging pervert with a hard-on for the cock, and while that's not too far from the truth, Dean _does_ want to be able to show his face here again. And of course after all his searching, the only thing he finds is a big heap of nothing for his troubles.

He very nearly goes to the bar for real afterward, just to take out his frustrations on some poor sap looking for a pool match, but he ends up going home anyway and blowing Sam on the couch while their dad sleeps in the next room, his loud snores ringing in Dean's ears the entire time. And it almost makes Dean feel better about the whole thing. Almost.

Until later that night -- they're lying in the same bed again, Dean pressed against Sam's chest with Sam's arms around him, which, if Dean weren't on the very brink of unconsciousness, he'd have removed Sam's arms and put some distance between them, because as much as Sam might wish, Dean is not, nor will he ever be, a chick -- when Sam finally brings it up.

"Dean?" And Sam has to know that he's damn well almost asleep, because otherwise, this cuddling shit? Would so not be happening. But Sam's always played the part of the annoying little brother well, even post-orgasm, apparently.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean's kind of proud that he manages to sound mildly miffed instead of the nearly full-out pissed he actually feels, because he spent all day at the fucking _library_ of all places, fucking _researching,_ so he really just wants to fucking go to sleep, thank you very much. This isn't the time for this talking, chick-flick shit.

But Sam's not having any of it. He just buries his face in the back of Dean's neck, lips nipping softy at where his shoulder meets the thick muscles of his neck, and says softly,

"Why won't you let me touch you, Dean?" There's a pause, just for a beat, and Dean's not sure if Sam really expects him to answer, until he continues with, "Are you feeling guilty still? Is that it?"

And Dean silently thanks god for Sam giving him an easy way out of this awkward situation, because he's not really ready to go into this conversation for real. Dean always tries to go into battle at least semi-prepared (well, with a shitload of weapons at the very least), but Sam's caught him completely off-guard, defenseless and cornered.

"Yeah, that's it Sam, just guilty is all," he says with a long suffering sigh, before he continues with as much conviction as he can muster, "I'll probably always feel at least a little guilty, after all, you're still my baby brother." And really, it's not that much of a stretch of the truth, if you forget the reason _why_ he feels guilty, but he doesn't think he can just tell Sam what's wrong.

There's a long stretch of silence, and Dean thinks that Sam might call his bluff for a moment, but thankfully he doesn't, just tightens his arms around Dean and says,

"It has to stop, Dean. You can't beat yourself up over this anymore. We _both_ want this."

"I can't help it, Sammy, I'm your big brother. It's like I'm corrupting you, or taking advantage of you," and Dean would like to thank the academy, because when Dean turns in Sam's arms to look into his eyes, his fingers trailing over Sam's cheek, his little brother's staring at him with wide-eyed wonder, as if Dean had just unleashed the darkest secrets of his soul.

"Dea--" he starts, but Dean cuts him off, pressing his mouth to Sam's in a hard kiss, forcing any more words from his head.

When they break apart, Dean softens his expression the best he can, widening his eyes and pushing out his bottom lip just the slightest bit, trying to play off the wide-eyed honesty and innocence he's so often on the receiving end of, and says in a somber voice, "I'm dealing with it, Sammy. Just go to sleep."

And thank _god_ he does, Dean just two quick steps behind him.

Sam's asleep in the other bed when Dean wakes up, snoring up a storm, and Dean's happy for his foresight, because Dad's standing in the doorway, peering in at them.

"Dean, when your brother wakes up, I want you both to go to the library and do some research for me." Their father gives him what passes for his most encouraging smile -- more like a slight grimace, really -- and disappears into the hallway.

Dean pulls himself out of bed with a groan, and he could just die, really, he could, because he's pretty sure that librarian's not going to forget Dean -- the gay pervert that gets his jollies off at the library -- anytime soon, and he really doesn't want Sam to know that he spent the better part of yesterday staring at pictures of penises when he should have been getting drunk and stupid in a bar. Like that wouldn't bring up a million unwanted questions.

Dean's never been so thankful in his entire life when another librarian is behind the front desk. Dean checks out a computer with no strange looks, while Sam hits the books, and after a glance over his shoulder, Dean quickly gives into temptation and brings up a new window to do some research of his own.

Hours later, Dean thinks he's looked at every penis on the internet before he ends up on the right track, a medical website with examples of a birth defect called hypospadias. Dean's tilting his head and squinting at the unusual placement of the hole on this particular example when he hears Sam clear his throat behind him. He's exiting the window so fast that he accidentally closes the one under it as well, the one that he came here for, with an extra click of his mouse.

"Wow, Dean, you must be pretty desperate if you're looking up gay porn on a library computer." Amusement is thick in Sam's voice as he says it, and Dean can't help the burning of his cheeks as he stares forward at the computer screen, mouse still clenched in his right hand.

"Uh.... Made any progress?" Dean finally says after a long moment, letting go of the mouse to turn and look up at his little brother.

Sam just grins down at him, full teeth and dimples flashing, and never skipping a beat, lets fly,

"Apparently more than you have."

Dean doesn't tell him he's made plenty of progress, thank you very much, just not on what he was supposed to be working on.

"In any case, I found what we were looking for. Come on, let's go back."

When they get back, Sam relays the information they found to their father, and he's off again, almost before Sam can finish speaking. Apparently a new hunt is just too much temptation to pass up, but Dean's all right with that, because that makes it easier for him and Sam to mess around without having to avoid suspicion.

Sam must have had the same thought, because Dad's barely closed the door before Sam all but attacks him, dragging him up for a sloppy kiss.

And they kiss long and slow as Sam kicks their bedroom door open and lets Dean rut against him, until Sam's knees are hitting the bed and they topple over onto it, Dean's hands already on Sam's belt while Sam cups his cock through his jeans, fingers spread wide over his crotch, pushing against Dean with his palm.

Dean's got Sam's pants open, about ready to go down on him when Sam's fingers wind up under his chin, lifting it up so he's looking his brother in the eyes. Eyes that are glazed over with lust, his mouth open a little, panting, when he says,

"Dean, I want you to fuck me."

Dean just blinks at him a moment, willing his cock to stop agreeing and for his brain to catch up to the conversation.

"No," his mouth finally forms the word after a long silence and Sam gives him the look. The one that he knows always turns Dean into putty in an instant, eyes wide with pouting lips.

"Why not?"

And Dean's brain is trying so hard to process anything beyond Sam's puppy eyes, trying so hard to think up an excuse, because his cock is betraying him, throbbing happily against his jeans at the thought of sinking into Sam's tight virgin ass. But fucking Sam involves taking his dick out of his pants, and being naked, and that is a no-no. So he says,

"Because, Sam, I've only gone down on you twice and we should probably take it slower."

"Is this a guilt thing, Dean?" Sam's leaning up on his elbows to look at Dean, body stretched out and hard in front of him, his cock curved up towards his stomach and leaning slightly to the left, and Dean's brain is shorting out again.

"Uh.... no?" Dean answers after a moment, realizing he's full-out staring, and maybe drooling a little at Sam's cock twitching and leaking pre-come from the hole on the underside of it.

"Then what _is_ it about?" Sam's rolling his eyes at Dean, pulling him up his body, pressing Dean against his chest, cock flush against Dean's shirtless belly, hot and hard and god does he just want to give in and fuck Sam right now.

"Because, I just think we might be taking this a little too fast is all," and Dean has an awful time trying to force that particular sentence out of his mouth, and stop himself from just _taking_ what Sam's offering up for him.

"You sound like a girl, Dean," Sam says before he crushes his lips against Dean's, his tongue slick and wet against Dean's lips, his mouth opening to let Sam in, and Jesus Christ, he should have never taught the kid to kiss like that, because it's just plain _unfair_ to use his moves against him like this. And really, if Dean could think beyond _oh my god tongue in mouth hot_ , he'd probably agree that, yeah, he sounds like a chick, and wonder what happened to his balls. But instead his brain is feeling a bit like jello, and downright useless when Sam starts to grin against his mouth. Dean can feel Sam's lips tightening against his, and he knows that Sam knows that he's pretty much given in and anything else he might say is just a formality.

"Okay, fine, goddamn it, you win," Dean says, ripping his mouth away from his brother's and pushing himself up from his position on top of Sam.

He's riffling through his duffel bag, searching for the lube and condoms that he _knows_ are there, if only he could stop sneaking glances at Sam from over his shoulder; Sam, who is sitting smug on the bed, wide grin like the cat that got the cream, and in a way he _has_ in a nearly literal sense. Or at least he will, if Dean can ever find that fucking lube that seems to keep eluding him.

When he gets back to the bed, feeling very much like a nervous teenager during his first time, Sam is stroking his cock, long and slow, lazily running his fingers over the hole on the underside to spread his pre-come along the shaft. And Dean's cock is twitching, painfully hard, begging to be let out of the prison of Dean's jeans, a condom and bottle of lube clutched in either hand.

Dean has to jump-start his brain yet again and move onto the bed, dropping the items down to the sheets as he slides back to his place on top of Sam, his fingers instantly going on top of Sam's hand to help him stroke his cock.

But Sam's obviously not going to be distracted by a little handjob because he stares pointedly down at Dean's crotch and says,

"Uh, Dean... Maybe this would work easier if you took your pants off."

Sam's fingers are already trying to work Dean's belt open when Dean lets out a slightly panicked, "No!" which is probably too fast for his own good, because Sam's giving him the oddest look, his fingers paused on the button of Dean's jeans.

" _Okay,_ " Sam draws his hands away and looks at Dean, "call me inexperienced, but aren't you supposed to be naked for this part?"

And Dean's looking away, trying to get his mouth to work and say something, anything, but Sam's talking again before he can think of a good excuse or anything beyond, _holy shit what do I do what do I do?_

"Don't tell me you're _shy_ about me seeing your dick, I mean, Jesus, Dean, you would think _you_ were the virgin. Is there something _wrong_ with it?"

Dean can feel his eyes go wide at Sam's words, and stutters out, "N--no," probably pretty unconvincingly, because Sam's giving him a look of pity, and this is not going at all like Dean planned.

"All right, Dean, keep your pants on," he finally mutters after a moment and lies back on the bed with a look of disappointment, defeated.

And Dean feels bad, really he does, for about two seconds before his hand snakes out to find its way around Sam's cock again and then he gives a little tug, Sam's face instantly going from disappointed to turned on in point three seconds flat, and Dean thanks god for uncontrollable teenage hormones.

After a few more strokes, Dean flips Sam over onto his stomach, still unwilling to give Sam the opportunity to see his cock, and quickly prepares him with shaking fingers. Stretching Sam seems like it takes eons, because he's so terrified that he's going to hurt him, that he does it for so long that Sam wriggles underneath, pushing back, and complaining,

"God, Dean, are you ever going to get to the point?"

"Uh, yeah, just give me a minute," Dean replies. He fumbles with the condom, knocks the little bottle of lube onto the floor, manages to snag it with just the tips of his fingers, before spilling globs of it all over the sheets. Sam sighs theatrically.

"Oh man, don't tell me you really _are_ a virgin," he says as he lifts his hips off the bed, pushing them temptingly towards Dean. "Come on, Dean, why won't you let me look at you while you're doing this?" he complains, head trying to turn to look at Dean, but he quickly moves from his little brother's view before he can see anything.

"This is a much easier position for the first time," Dean says, bullshitting with what he hopes is enough know-how in his voice to convince Sam.

It obviously does, because Sam doesn't say anything about the position again.

And Dean is so nervous as he slides into home that the sex isn't even that great, completely lacking in rhythm and even thrusts, but Sam doesn't seem to mind, or even notice for that matter, because he comes just the same, with Dean's name on his lips.

And Dean tucks himself back in his jeans and drops the tied off condom into the wastebasket next to the bed, wondering how long he can really keep this up before Sam figures out what's wrong, because by the boneless way Sam's sprawled across him, nuzzling at his hair, he's pretty sure this is going to happen again.

And Dean's decided he's going to be prepared next time, he's going to make sure of it. So in the morning he untangles himself from Sam as gently as he can and slips out to the library, neglecting a shower for some research time instead. Dean's pretty sure if Sam knew how much time he spent at the library recently, he'd probably never hear the end of it, considering how much shit Dean has always given Sam about it. But Sam is a geek, and if Dean had a choice, he'd be anywhere but here.

This time, though, he knows what he's looking for, so he quickly brings up website upon website of information on hypospadias. He sorts through the statistics, facts, one of out of every three hundred, four hundred, the numbers fluctuate depending on the source, but it's common and Dean's amazed at everything he finds. Along with a good understanding of exactly why Sam never got the corrective surgery that every website recommends for a baby with the defect. Because of six months.

Six months is the youngest they'll correct the problem. Something about the earliest age they can separate the child from its mother. And at six months old, Sam's mother --their mother -- was burning on the ceiling, anything else taking a complete back seat to their father's grief and his quest for answers. And Dean bets that Sam's problem probably took a back seat as well to thoughts of revenge and hunting, and Dean wonders if Dad even remembers at all anymore that Sam had the problem, or if it slipped his mind in keeping his boys safe from the evils of the darkness. But according to these sources, Sam's self-esteem will suffer when he finally realizes the difference between him and other guys, and Dean doesn't know if he can bear to see those already wide shoulders slump in on themselves any more than they already do.

And Dean decides right then that if Sam doesn't already know, then he's not going to tell him any differently until he can actually _do_ something about the defect.

So he decides that the only thing he can really do, is talk to their dad, no matter how grim of a thought that is. Sure, there will be awkward unwanted questions, and probably even greater unwanted answers, but Dad will know some way to _fix_ this, maybe he'll even dig out one of the fake insurance cards Dad keeps in the glove box of the Impala, and Sam can finally get the surgery, and be _normal_.

He honestly doesn't know what Dad will do when he finds out, but Dean's pretty sure it will be ugly if the honest to god truth of why he knows actually comes out in the wash. Because Dean never thought, when they started with the innocent little presses of mouths, that he would actually have to face his father with the truth. The truth that he had actually _fucked_ his fifteen-year-old brother, and Dean actually feels downright _ill_ at the very thought of how that conversation might go, and for a moment, he honestly thinks about finding the money himself so that their father never has to know.

Except Dean knows, _knows_ , that the hospital would never in a million years take Sam through such a traumatizing ordeal without their father's consent. So he's left with little choice.

His stomach is revolting and he feels so violently ill at the very thought of telling his father, that he barely makes it to the bathroom before he loses it completely.

But when Dean gets home, Dad isn't back from the hunt yet. It's just Sam, sitting at the kitchen table, reading an old yellowed paperback like the geek he is.

He doesn't let Sam know he's freaking out, though, because he had the entire ride back from the library to steel his nerves, and if that didn't do it, Dean doesn't think he'll ever be calm enough to face Sam, and definitely not his father. No, instead of letting the fear show through, he just ruffles Sam's hair and says,

"How was school, kiddo?"

Sam doesn't answer the question, though, just bats his hand away, places a bookmark between the dog-eared pages of the ancient book and says instead,

"I know why you won't let me see you naked."

And well, Sam's always been blunt and to the point, not to mention incredibly full of surprises.

"What are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean asks, feigning confusion, as he drops into the wood[en] chair across from his little brother. Because Dean thinks that maybe if he can pretend that this whole nasty mess is foreign to him, then Sam will say the words for him, so he won't have to, because he doesn't know if his mouth could actually form the words to tell Sam.

Like Dean has said many times over, Sam is always full of surprises, because he answers with,

"I know about your deformity, Dean. I've known about it since that first morning after you sucked me off. You were having a wet dream so I thought I'd jerk you off while you were sleeping. And I don't _care_ that you're different."

And holy shit, the kid was taking the goddamn words right out of his mouth. Dean was downright flabbergasted, trying hard to close his mouth and stop fucking staring at him like he had grown a second head. Because, this was _not_ how he pictured this conversation when he sat down.

Dean doesn't say anything for a very long time, just stares at Sam, who stares back with all the intensity that a fifteen-year-old can, his serious face completely in place. And when Sam finally starts to squirm in his seat Dean comes to a decision in his head.

"I was afraid that you might see me differently if you knew." And really, Dean just can't bear to tell Sam the truth, even if he knows that one day it will undoubtedly come back and bite him in the ass, because he knows that it's only a matter of time until Sam realizes his mistake. Maybe even as soon as the close of the week, but Dean just needs a little time, that's all. Just enough for him to talk to Dad about the whole thing.

"Please, Dean, let me see you, all of you, for real. You don't have to hide anymore, Dean. I promise I'll never think any differently of you," and Dean could cry as Sam says it, all sincerity and honesty, his hand reaching out across the table to cup Dean's cheek, because fuck if it isn't nearly the same speech he's practiced in his head since the first time he laid eyes on Sam's cock.

Sam's finger runs slowly over his lips, just tracing them softly, and Dean automatically takes the digit into his mouth, hardly even thinking about it, as he sucks gently at it, eyes still staring at Sam in shock despite the movement of his mouth.

After a very long moment, Sam's now wet finger slips from Dean's mouth to brush over his rough, unshaven cheek, leaving a trail of saliva behind as Dean finally answers,

"All right, Sammy... All right." He pushes himself up from the chair, the scraping against the tiled floor ringing loud in his ears, and he silently moves to the bedroom, knowing full well that Sam will follow him.

And sure enough, the bedroom door is clicking shut under Sam's hand when Dean's fingers find themselves shakily at his belt, his shirt already on the floor in front of him.

But Sam's hands stop him on the zipper caught between his fingers.

"Wait, Dean. I want to do it," Sam tells him in a near whisper, as if his full voice might frighten Dean away, as his large hand finds its way on top of Dean's. His breath is catching in his throat, his stomach tightening at every _'click click click'_ of the teeth being pulled apart, all the way down.

Sam's kissing him as he pushes Dean's jeans down his hips, taking his half-hard cock in his hand, and running his finger over the tip, as if testing the waters and comparing it to his own.

Dean's sucking in a deep breath at the feeling of Sam's soft but strong hand on his dick, stroking him to full hardness pretty quickly, while his mouth works against his, tongue painting a pretty picture within his mouth of what he might be able to do to another part of Dean. And damn if he's not eager to find out, even if he knows full well that he's taking advantage of the situation -- and that it will probably come back to haunt him later -- but as Sam drops to his knees in front of him, he's finding it a little hard to care.

His little brother's hot mouth is engulfing the head of his cock, sucking and licking at it gently, and there's really no technique to the way Sam goes about it, mostly just messy sweeps of his tongue and sucking that's far too soft to matter, but Dean's fingers are tangling in Sam's hair anyway, holding back his hips by sheer force of will. Because this is the first time anyone's gone down on him in a very long time. When Sam had decided that he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer anymore, he had stopped fucking around with other people, figuring that if Sam wouldn't take anyone else, then at least he wouldn't have to settle for the sloppy seconds.

As his brother's fingers are squeezing around the base of his cock (a little too hard for Dean's taste, but Sam's new to this, there'll be plenty of time for showing him the proper grip later), Dean comes so fast that he barely has time to warn Sam, and well, apparently he still wasn't quick enough to warn, because Sam's pulling back, coughing and sputtering. Then spits the semen out onto Dean's t-shirt.

"Oh, gross, how can you swallow this stuff, Dean? It's nasty." Sam pulls a face and sticks his tongue out as Dean grins down at him, knees shaky and weak beneath him, his jeans still caught on his boots around his ankles.

He pulls Sam to his feet with a laugh, and brings him close to his body, his softening cock pressing against Sam's thigh -- because the little fucker's already taller than Dean -- as he laps the rest of the come from his mouth.

"Don't worry about it, you'll get used to the taste, then you might even start to like it," and he grins again at Sam's look of disgust, and presses his forehead against Sam's, continuing with, "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up and I'll take care of you too." He runs his fingers over the straining crotch of Sam's jeans, and he feels a little bad, because Sam's hard enough that it's a wonder that the seams of his pants are still together.

So Dean makes up for it by sucking Sam off in the shower. But he can't help but think that this whole plan blew up in his face, and now how the fuck is he supposed to explain this to Dad, because Sam's gotten the whole thing wrong, and now things are even worse than before, because he stupidly went along with it. So of course, there's really no way for him to get out of this without looking like the bad guy on all accounts.

Dad comes home earlier that night than anticipated and pushes their bedroom door open, just peering in at them for a moment, but Dean's wide awake. Sam's tucked close to his body, naked legs entangled, but under the blankets, thank god, and Dad obviously doesn't think anything of his sons sharing the same bed, because he just says, "Goodnight, boys," and closes the door behind him.

Dean lets out a long sigh of relief when the door clicks shut, then slips out of bed and into the jeans he discarded on the floor earlier that evening before he fucked Sam into the mattress, this time comparatively less nervous and more coordinated than last. Sam must have felt the difference, because afterward he just lay there on the twin mattress -- stripped bare in their passion -- and stared up at the ceiling, panting. And Dean wasn't much better, lying draped across his little brother like a second skin, trying hard to catch his breath and ignore the semen currently cooling on the skin between them.

Dean supposes any normal parent probably would have wondered why the bedsheets were pushed down to reveal two naked torsos without a breath between them, but John Winchester is hardly a normal parent, and for that Dean is thankful. It's not like it's the first time that their dad had seen them in such a state, but usually when it happened, it was when Sam was much younger and there had been a nightmare that had caused him to crawl into Dean's bed, not because they had fucked like bunnies a few hours before. But the truth remains that John Winchester had seen his children in bed together before, under different circumstances, and the sight of it was probably not forgotten.

Easily explained sleeping arrangements, however, doesn't really make Dean feel any better. Probably because he's going to disprove any theory that his father might have previously had about the relationship between them with the coming conversation. He's been dreading it all day, and this time, Sam's not awake to distract him from the icy fingers clawing at the pit of his belly.

When Dean gets to the kitchen, Dad is sitting at the table, leftovers untouched in a plastic bowl in front of him, as he pores over a newspaper. There's a breeze coming in from the open kitchen window above the sink, reminding Dean that he's still shirtless, and that maybe this conversation would be easier if he weren't half-naked. For a moment, Dean almost turns around, looking for any excuse to get the hell out of there, and never look back, but just as he starts to spin on his heel, his dad puts down the newspaper and looks up at him.

"Dean, what are you doing up?" he asks in a slightly surprised voice, and Dean curses his father's hunting skills for his sharp hearing before he gives up the ghost and walks into the kitchen, sliding nervously into the seat across from his father.

"Dad, I gotta talk to you about Sammy." There, conversation initiated. Now's the hard part, or at least, the hard part's going to come quickly.

His father's eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, looking vaguely surprised before he answers with,

"Is he having nightmares again?" And really, it's an easy question because they happened so often when Sam was younger, but Dean doesn't tell him that Sam stopped having nightmares months ago when Sam started to slip into Dean's bed after long make-out sessions.

Instead he soldiers on and says,

"No, Dad, this is about something that should have been taken care of a long time ago."

His father's eyes narrow now, cocking one thick eyebrow in confusion.

"What should have been taken care of?"

"Uh..." Dean tries hard to spit it out, he's so close, he can see the light at the end of the tunnel if only he could focus and get the words out, and pray to god that Dad doesn't question it. "His hypospadias, Dad," and there, that wasn't so bad.

His dad stares at him for a long moment before he lets out a long sigh and rubs his forehead.

"Shit. It completely slipped my mind with the fire and your mother..." He doesn't have to finish the sentence, because the words are hanging between them clear as day. They always are, and when his father's eyes glaze over, Dean doesn't doubt that he's reliving the moment his wife was pinned to the ceiling.

"Well, he still has it, Dad, and it's not just going to go away." And really, Dean _knows_ he's pushing his luck with that tone of voice, but he can't help it, because this is _Sammy_ they're talking about, and this is _important_. And if Dean can suck it up to come out here and have this conversation, then his dad can do the same, and listen.

"He doesn't know, yet, that he's different. I thought, maybe, you could break it to him..." Dean knows he should be the one to do it, he knows that Sam will understand it most coming from him, but he _can't_. He's already lied once, and to actually see the look on Sam's face would probably kill him.

"He's always responded better to you..." His dad is trailing off, a very serious look in his eye, tight scowl across his face, suspicion written in the deep lines between his eyebrows as he stares Dean down, as if trying to figure something important out. Dean slumps lower in his seat and tries not to look guilty when he comes back with, "Dean, how do you know that Sam doesn't know, and an even better question... How do you know about it at all?"

His father licks his lips and gives him an expectant look, but Dean can't answer, because his mouth is suddenly so dry that he'd kill for a glass of water.

He gets up from his seat to get one, but his father motions for him to sit back down and says in a hard, steady voice,

"Answer me, Dean. How did you know?"

Dean licks his lips too as his bottom connects with his chair once again. His mouth's forming the words, but it seems that his voice isn't working because they're stuck in his throat. But he licks his lips again -- a nervous habit he's had since he was a child -- and forces the words: "Because I slept with him."

His dad blinks at him, a bit taken aback, and says, "Well, I could see that with my own two eyes, son, but that doesn't explain why you _know_."

"No, Dad, I mean, I _slept_ with Sam... As in..." Dean trails off and motions vaguely in the air with his hands, hoping to god that he gets the meaning across without actually having to _say_ it.

He gives Dean a blank look, and Dean really has to applaud his father's unwillingness to believe something just because it's so goddamn unpleasant and unthinkable, he really does.

Finally, after a few moments where Dean thinks the silence might suffocate him if he lets it go on any longer, he spits out,

"I had sex with Sam." His voice is weak and so small that Dean would be amazed if his father even heard it on the other side of the little wooden table.

But he obviously does, because his lips part and he gives Dean the most disgusted look he's ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of.

If looks could kill -- and boy, would Dean like to strangle whoever came up with _that_ bit of cliché right now, but fuck does it ever apply -- Dean would be wilting in his seat. As it stands, he's sinking even lower than he ever thought possible into his chair, his father's gaze growing hotter and hotter with every second that ticks by.

"You fucked," and Dean can see on his father's face how absolutely sour that word tastes in his mouth, "Sammy..."

There's apparently not enough righteous anger in the world for how he feels about Dean right now, because he's struggling for words, and Dean's kind of hoping that he never finds them.

"He's your _brother_." His face is crinkling up, squeezing together as he spits the words out like poison, and for a brief second Dean wonders if Dad would have had the same reaction if Sam had been a girl, but the thought is quickly gone as his father continues, "Not only that... he's fifteen, Dean. A _child_ ," and now he's choking on the word as it leaves his mouth, his face telling Dean exactly how sick to his stomach the very idea of it all makes him.

Sam's sleepy voice comes before his father can tell him just how fucked up he really is, a soft little,

"Dean? Are you in there? You weren't in bed anymore," and that causes his father's face to soften for a moment, looking more gentle than Dean could ever remember seeing in his life.

"Sammy," he calls out as Sam comes around the corner, rubbing his eyes, his jeans slung low on his hips, the elastic of his underwear peeking out over the top.

He immediately stops rubbing his eyes at the sight of their father, a slightly startled look on his face as he glances quickly between the two of them at the table and says,

"Dad, when did you get in?"

Their father sidesteps the question completely -- probably deeming it unimportant in light of the information that Dean has so stupidly shared with him -- and grabs Sam's wrist and drags him closer, then grips both his arms to look him in the eyes long and hard. Dean's pretty sure he knows what his father's going to ask before he even opens his mouth.

And course, Dean's right when his father's voice softens again as he asks,

"Sammy, has Dean ever made you do anything you didn't want to... Anything... sexual?"

Sam's face goes red and he looks away, towards Dean, his face unsure and Dean's willing to bet that he's weighing the consequences of his answer, because Dean's betting that it's worse if they _both_ want it, like Dad can excuse it if just one of his sons is a sick fuck, but not _both_ of them. He's sure Sam knows this just as well as he does, but Sam's not ready for the assault of questions, whereas Dean's been prepared for them since he decided his father needed to be reminded about Sam's problem.

"Of course not, Dad," Sam says, and their father gives a great sigh of relief, his fingers loosening on Sam's arms, probably thinking that Dean's just talking out of his ass, before Sam continues with, "he never did anything that I didn't ask for." And, well, Dean's pretty sure _that_ answer didn't win him any points, because he can feel his father's gaze scorching his flesh as he stares down at the scratched and battered tabletop.

"You don't have to lie for your brother, Sammy. You don't have to protect him... You need to be honest with me, Sam. Did he hurt you?" and he's running soothing hands up and down Sam's arms as he says it. And Dean's seen that look in his father's eyes before, the one he gives victims when he's pretending to be their friend, to soothe them as he pumps them for the information he needs, and he's pretty sure from the look on Sam's face that he recognizes it too.

"It wasn't like that, Dad." Sam draws his arms away from the touches, and gives their father a hurt look, as if he just plain can't _believe_ that their father could _ever_ think that Dean would do such a thing. "Dean did those things to me because I _begged_ him to. Because I _wanted_ them. If anything _I'm_ the one you should be angry at for taking advantage of _him_."

Their father doesn't miss a beat, quickly answering with,

"But he still _did_ it, Sammy, whether you wanted it or not. You're only fifteen, you're not old enough to consent. What Dean did was illegal. Even if you thought you wanted it." His fingers are on Sam's cheek now, rubbing little circles over it with the back of his hand, like he's soothing a child. But Sam hasn't been a child for a long while now, with everything he's seen and shouldered over the years, and their father should know, because he's the one that put most of it there, forcing Sam to grow up so much faster than most kids. "It's still wrong, Sammy. He _used_ you."

Dean can't help the outraged noise that bubbles up from his throat at that, and his father obviously can't help the heavy glare that falls upon Dean at the sound because he says,

"I can't even stand the sight of you right now, Dean. You can sleep in the Impala tonight. I can't trust you under the same roof as your brother right now," with venom thick in his voice. Dean's pretty sure that he chose the word 'brother' on purpose, and he doesn't know if he's ever going to be able to get back into his father's good graces, because he's fucked this whole thing up good and well, his whole plan blown to little bits.

Sam's staring at him with wide, hopeless eyes as Dean slides from the chair and out the front door, but his father's eyes feel like daggers on his back all the way until the door clicks behind him.

He pads quietly through the dimly lit parking lot to the Impala, standing alone at the edge of the blacktop, thankful for the warmth of the quickly fading summer. His fingers pull open the handle, the door easily coming with it and he slides across the backseat, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Dean sits alone in the dark for hours, just staring into the inky night in front of him, thinking about how he'd fucked this one up big time, when the door opens and startles him out of his thoughts.

"Dean?" And Sam's warm body is sliding in next to his, pushing his over with a gentle nudge so that he can slide in the rest of the way. Sam is the last person he expects to see, but that doesn't stop him from scooting over and letting Sam lean close to him in the tight space of the backseat. He's pretty sure Dad's probably keeping really close tabs on Sam right now, and he definitely wouldn't approve of Sam taking a trip out to the Impala at whatever-the-fuck o'clock it is in the morning.

"What are you doing out here?" He tries to say it as calmly as he can, but he's shaking with panic at seeing his brother, waiting for his father to come to the door any second and catch the two of them.

But Sam doesn't say anything back to ease Dean's panic, just smiles widely at him, a glint of mischief in his eyes as his dimples cut half circles into his cheeks and his pearly white teeth flash in the dim light.

"I snuck out. I wanted to see you," and then he slams the door, sending the car back into darkness, the glass windows not letting nearly enough light through, before he locks lips with Dean in a messy, wet kiss.

"Dad thought he could keep us away from each other, but it seems kind of silly to me. I mean, we _live_ together, not really much he can do," and Sam snorts as he says it, and Dean can _hear_ the eye roll in his voice, but he can't get past the sense of panic he feels at having his little brother so close to him. "And speaking of keeping us apart, Dean, why the _hell_ would you tell Dad that we were _fucking_? It seems rather counterproductive to you ever getting laid again."

Dean manages to push down the panic of getting caught just long enough for the _'oh shit what do I tell him?'_ panic to set in. Because he can't flat out _tell_ Sam about the hypospadias, because he never got a real answer out of Dad on the subject before he got pissed off (which is really a bit of an understatement, but it's a moot point right now), so instead he settles on a small white lie.

"He saw the two of us in bed together. He figured it out, I mean, I guess we just weren't careful enough."

He knows that Sam totally buys it when he leans down and captures Dean's lips again, before he says,

"Well, we'll just have to be more cautious from now on."

Dean tries really hard not to laugh cynically at that, because he's pretty sure there won't _be_ a next time if Dad has any say in the matter, and considering they both live with him, Dean gets the impression that 'next time' won't be an option, unless their father ever decides to leave them alone together to go on a hunt again.

But Sam just sucks on Dean's bottom lip and tells him in a rough, sleep-deepened voice,

"I know what will cheer you up."

And, well, Dean just about has a heart-attack right then and there, because his imagination is very quickly supplying him with a _lot_ of nice things that Sam could do to cheer him up. And then it also, just as quickly, switches tracks to what would happen if their father ever found them in the middle of the said nice things that Sam could do for Dean, which is really the fastest way to kill an erection.

Sam's breath is hot against his neck though, as his lips ghost over Dean's pulse point, occasionally sucking softly at the tender flesh there.

"Come on, Dean, Dad was sound asleep when I came out here. He's not going to wake up anytime soon." Trust Sam to be able to read Dean so well. And his argument is a persuasive one; Dean's cock certainly seems to find it passable at least as it pushes against his jeans. Sam's hot body climbs on top of his, and really he's _way_ too fucking tall, but he somehow manages to make it work, settling on top of Dean's thighs, their bare chests slicking together with sweat as Sam's hot mouth sucks at his neck. The contact of their skin is driving him crazy, forcing him to bare his throat for Sam and give a soft moan as his hips push up to meet the weight on top of them.

He knows he should tell Sam to stop, because he's sure to have a hickey the size of Texas there tomorrow, and that's not going to win him any points when he has to face his father again, but, instead, he snakes his arms around Sam's waist and pulls his hips closer, feeling the press of Sam's erection against his stomach.

Dean brings Sam's mouth up to his with the tips of his fingers directing his brother's chin up before he gives into his demands completely, pressing his lips against Sam's. The contact is very soft at first, just a little touch of lips, but as Sam presses his ass down, grinding against Dean's cock, he remembers just how serious this is, opening his mouth to let Sam's tongue slip between his lips.

They're lapping at each other's mouths, their tongues barely concealed behind teeth and lips, messy tracks of saliva trekking down his and Sam's lips. Dean thinks this probably should be really disgusting, but he's chasing the trail of spit across Sam's chin and brings it back up to his mouth for one last lingering kiss before Sam breaks it off and pulls back, his hand on Dean's chest.

"Dean." Sam's voice is hot and heavy against his ear as he leans forward again, his fingers dropping down Dean's chest, passing over a hardened nipple, lower and lower, fingers catching on the hairs of his lower stomach, and Dean's sucking in a breath, growing harder from just the way Sam says his name alone.

"I want to suck you off again," he says, and well, Dean's not going to argue with that because this is one urge that Dean fully supports, especially when Sam's tongue darts out, wetting his earlobe before he takes it between his teeth.

Then his brother's body is sliding off of his, and he's disappointed at the loss of pressure against his cock, as Sam slides his body onto the leather seat next to him. But the pressure is immediately replaced with Sam's fingers playing against his zipper, lust-filled eyes staring up at him through long eyelashes. And of course the little brat takes forever to get his zipper down, deliberately slowing the motion of his hand as he stares at Dean with a wide, devilish grin.

"Cocktease," Dean accuses, when the zipper finally reaches the bottom, and Sam's hands are pushing Dean's pants down, off his hips, forcing Dean to lift his ass to take them even further down around his thighs.

Sam doesn't say anything back, just pushes Dean's jeans down to his shins and moves to his knees, resting a forearm on Dean's thigh as he leans down over Dean's straining cock, begging for attention. But, as Sam's hot breath is playing over the head, he can't stop himself from saying,

"Dude, you better swallow it this time, 'cause I'll kill you if you get it on the leather."

And Dean thinks it's important for him to say it, and definitely not deserving of the dumbfounded look that Sam is casting in his direction, because this car is his _baby_ \-- well, not really _his_ , but it _is_ the only home he's ever really known and even the idea of Sam spilling his splooge all over the seats sends through him a dirty feeling of the defilement of his childhood -- and not even a blowjob from his little brother's going to change that fact.

"God, Dean, you really know how to set the mood." Dean would love to slap the sarcasm right out of the kid, if he weren't poised, completely ready, with his hot mouth above his cock right now. Finally, there's a gust of hot air before Sam says, "Fine, I'll open the door and spit it out, all right?"

Sam doesn't even give Dean a chance to respond to that before he engulfs the head of Dean's cock in his wet heat, and Dean has suddenly died and gone to heaven. Or at least a really fucked-up, backwoods sort of heaven, because Dean's pretty sure incest wouldn't be too hot in the real one.

It seems that Sam has started to figure out how this works this time around, because even though he's still licking sloppily across the shaft and head of Dean's cock, he's at least alternating now with sucking hard enough for Dean's eyes to cross completely unbidden.

One of his hands is grasping at his brother's hair, probably pulling harder than he means to, but right now he's just doing everything in his power not to thrust his hips forward and try to find more of that moist heat wrapped around his dick. And really, Sam's just lucky he has some control, because if he could, Dean would be hitting the back of his throat like there's no tomorrow. Then Sam's fingers are circling the very base of his cock and the fingers on his other hand are going numb from the grip he has on the leather seat beneath his thigh.

Sam's obviously is a quick study, because this time around his grip is lighter, perfect, stroking with nimble fingers whatever he can't fit into his mouth, and Dean's amazed to realize that Sam's taking him past his gag reflex, something that took him at least a dozen tries to get right.

"Oh _fuck_ , Sam." The windows are fogging up with the thick, panting breaths that are catching his throat, his fingers tightening in Sam's hair so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if he held a clump of auburn hair in his hand when it was all over.

Sam's fingers are finding their way under Dean now, slick with saliva, and Dean obediently lifts his hips without giving it a second thought, because the intense sucking on his cock is more than enough persuasion right now for him to do anything Sam wants. And then Sam's fingers are pushing against his hole, demanding entrance into his ass, two fingers steadily pushing past the resistance, and _fuck_ , Dean's so close he can fucking _taste_ it.

"Sam, I'm gonna --" and he can't even finish the sentence, because one of his brother's fingers has just found its way against his prostate, and he can't help the way his hips jump, pushing his cock deep into Sam's mouth before he's coming and Sam's trying not to choke.

Dean doesn't even think about it, it's so deeply ingrained in who he is, that he just opens the door and bodily yanks Sam out of it, Sam's fingers pulling out of his body too quickly, leaving behind a burning, hot sensation, but fuck if Dean's going to let him spill it all over his seats. Sam barely makes it out of the door, his hard chest pushing against Dean's softening cock before he spits it out all over the blacktop.

And Dean's eyes are meeting those of his father.

And really, the, "Oh fuck," Sam mutters as he looks up, come still dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, lips shining with spit and semen, doesn't even _begin_ to cover how fucked to hell they both are.

If their father looks a little murderous at this moment, Dean doesn't really know if he can blame him. There's a puddle at his feet and there's really no way to deny what it is, especially seeing as there's still a long line of it dripping from Sam's mouth has he drapes his body across Dean's naked lap, his cock pretty much flapping in the breeze.

"Sam. Dean." Dean's genuinely surprised at his father's tight voice addressing them both. "Five minutes," he pauses, and Sam wiggles in his place, Dean's cock trying hard to take an interest in the movement, but his father's watchful eye makes it wilt completely. "Be in that apartment in five minutes. You don't want me to come back out here." And with a final look of disgust directed at Dean, he turns to walk back through the parking lot, his shoulders hunched and his footsteps heavy against the pavement as his steel-toed boots slam hard on the blacktop.

There's a dead silence as their father slams the door behind him and Dean starts to pull Sam back inside the car door and against his chest. Sam's wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and Dean's thinking that he should really learn to swallow, because that would make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier.

Dean pulls his jeans back up his hips, tucking himself back into his pants when the silence finally becomes unbearable.

"He's going to kill me, isn't he?"

Sam just looks up at him with his big doe eyes, all innocence and wonder as he drops his arms to his sides.

"What are you talking about?" Sam says after a moment in which Dean has already almost started to hyperventilate, because hello? No way in hell he can talk his way out of this one. "He's going to kill us _both_. I mean, I was the one sucking your dick, not the other way around."

"You really think that matters? It doesn't make it any better! He's going to think I forced you!" And Dean's officially freaking the fuck out, and he's allowed after all. But Sam's just staring at him like he's the world's biggest idiot, and well, maybe he _is_ considering the situation, but fuck, Sam has _no idea_ how fucking _bad_ this is going to be. This is worse than any time he ever disobeyed an order. This is down right fucking _disgusting_ to their father, and he's pretty sure this isn't going to be the bucket of puppies and sunshine that Sam obviously thinks it will be. Because Dean gets the feeling he'll be lucky if his father only castrates him.

Sam's opening the door to slide off Dean's lap and onto the pavement, but Dean doesn't budge. He's too busy thinking about the pain he knows is coming to him, his hands drifting up to his face as he tries to curl up as small as he can, like maybe then it will make all of it go away.

But it doesn't.

"Come on, Dean, it won't be that bad," Sam tells him as he puts a soothing hand on Dean's back, but he sounds so unsure now that all it does is make Dean shrink further into himself, cursing his own stupidity and all that thinking with his dick.

He should have sent Sam back inside, should have made him leave, but now there's no way to fix what happened.

"You're only going to make it worse if you stay out here," and well, Sam's always been a strong voice of reason for Dean, even if he doesn't want to admit it. He forces himself to stop panicking and uncurl himself and look up at Sam. He's seriously hoping his eyes don't look as wet and gooey as they feel, but he thinks he's probably not so lucky as Sam's lips part and his brow wrinkles in worry.

That's really all it takes for Dean to calm down and finally plant both feet on the ground and push himself up from the leather seats. He looks over at his little brother with a grin as he finds his feet, trying to play it cool, even if he's still shaking apart at the seams on the inside. "Come on, Sammy. We've got a date with destiny."

He ruffles Sam's hair as he just rolls his eyes in Dean's general direction and slams the door behind him.

"You're so lame sometimes, Dean." But there's affection thick in his voice as he says it, betraying him completely, just like Dean's unsteady hand is doing as he reaches out to stroke Sam's cheek one last time before they both walk towards the apartment, dread settling in the pit of his stomach as they draw closer.

Sam has a deep worry line working itself between his brows, his whole face scrunched up, so Dean tries hard to calm himself, taking deep breaths until he's stone cold calm and looks over at Sam, ready to say something, anything to make them both feel better, even if he has to lie, but just as he takes a breath, the door swings open, and their father is standing in the doorway like a brick wall looking as grim as Dean suddenly feels.

"Get in here, both of you," he orders, and they both hopelessly obey as he steps aside to let them pass, immediately motioning for them to take the two chairs in front of him. They obediently drop down into them as their father slams the door behind him, shaking the whole door frame with his anger.

Sam winces and Dean tries to do [every]thing in his power to just stare ahead, his face blank, but he knows his father can sense his fear.

Their father doesn't say anything, though, just stops in front of Sam, staring down at him with hard features, eyes glinting dangerously, and Dean wonders if he really _will_ kill them both, because he seems to be burning a hole in Sam with his eyes, and Dean knows nothing he says will make the situation better. So he says nothing. Just watches them, his father's eyes narrowed and his brother's wide with fear.

"Sam," and his voice is harsh as he stares down at him, "I didn't want to have to tell you like this, but it doesn't seem like you really care what I want. If you think you're old enough to make your own decisions behind my back, then fine. You're old enough to hear what I'm going to tell you."

And Dean knows what his father's going to say, because it's exactly what Dean has been petrified of telling his little brother for the last few days. But he gets the feeling that by the time his speech is done, Dean's going to wish he would have just stepped up and admitted it to Sam himself, because he can tell [b]y their father's stance that he has no intention of making this easy on Sam.

"Sam." His father takes a deep breath before continuing and Dean can tell that even though he says otherwise, he's still worried about the way he's wording things, trying hard not to hurt Sammy anymore than he has to. "You have hypospadias. It's a birth defect in males. I don't know what kind of lies Dean's been telling you, but you're different than him."

Sam's eyes are wide, but this time, not with fear, instead he can see the righteous anger bubbling to the surface as he turns his attention to Dean momentarily, before snapping right back to his father.

"You're lying." It's like Sammy can barely speak, his voice a shuddering whisper when he finally finds it, eyes of accusation stabbing like knives into their father's flesh.

Dean doesn't wait for the expected reply, though, doesn't give his father a chance to answer before he finally takes responsibility with, "He's not, Sam. I'm the one that lied to you."

All eyes are on him now, and he's melting under the heat of the dual pairs, realizing in that moment how much alike the two of them are sometimes.

But there isn't really a chance for any of them to say something, because the sound of a ringing phone breaks through the tense air in the room.

"God damn it," their father mutters and turns away from the scene, leaving Sam and Dean alone, but Sam's a trooper, his eyes never leaving Dean's, full of rage and betrayal. Dean expects to see maybe the haze of tears in his little brother's eyes, but they're dry and angry, and Dean knows when Sam doesn't even pout, that he's really, really fucked this up big time.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Like hell you are," Sam's teeth mash together as he says it, and Dean can't help but flinch, a tension between them for the first time in as long as Dean can remember. Hell, he's pretty sure there's never been tension between them before. Not even after the first time Sam kissed him, and he was so unsure of what to do.

There's a thick silence now as Sam stares at him with accusing eyes, broken only by the soft rumble of his father's voice, muffled by the walls of the bedroom.

There's not much improvement when their father comes back into the room, either. He's still looking just as pissed off, and Sam's pissed off and Dean's sinking against the chair under the weight of their stares.

"I need to leave. There's hunt in Wyoming." There's a long stretch of quiet in which their father looks at each of them for a few moments, as if judging something, before he continues, "I'm going to drop you two off at Bobby's, since I can't trust you two to be alone."

The ride to Bobby's is a drawn-out one, especially with the fact that none of them seem to have anything to say to each other. For the first time, Sam seems to be getting along better with their father than with Dean, the two of them fuming in the front seat together while Dean sulks in the back, feeling very much like the world's biggest asshole.

Maybe he'd stop feeling like such a tool if Dad or Sammy would talk to him, or hell, he'd even settle for _looking_ at him, maybe making eye contact, or even, you know, looking in his general direction, he's not picky, but it _is_ kind of driving him crazy.

When they pull up to Singer Salvage Yard, Dean's never been so glad to see the place. The car has barely stopped before he lets the door swing open and clamors out of the backseat. When Dean rises to his full height next to the car, he's not at all surprise[d] to see Bobby standing on the front porch with his hands in his jeans pockets, after all, the rumble of the Impala engine is probably loud enough to hear a mile away, especially in the middle of nowhere without any other noise pollution to cover the sound.

Dad is right behind him, getting out of the car as soon as the keys are pulling from the ignition, and coming up behind Dean, fingers coming up to the back of his neck to squeeze uncomfortably, and lead him up to the front porch.

"Bobby," his father says in greeting, with a curt nod.

Bobby just returns it with his own greeting of, "John. Dean." He opens the front door to let them into the house, but Dad doesn't step forward and he can see Bobby hesitate, realizing that this isn't just a friendly visit, like it ever is with them.

"No, Bobby." Bobby turns back towards them at the sound of Dad's voice, "I need you to watch the boys for me. Just for a week. Two at most."

Bobby eyes them both carefully for a long moment, and Dean shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot until his father's fingers tighten on the back of his neck, stopping him.

His dad continues after a few seconds of Bobby's eyes on them, "There's a hunt in Wyoming and I can't trust -- I can't leave them alone. It shouldn't take me too long, like I said, just a week, two at most."

Bobby nods in agreement and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get any words out, the car door slams and all three of them freeze, then Sammy stomps right by all three of them and into the house, not even waiting to be invited in. If Bobby's upset by Sam's manners, he doesn't say anything, just says, "Alright, I'll watch 'em."

Dean's amazed that Dad even takes the time to get his and Sam's bags out of the car and into Dean's arms before he jams the keys back into the ignition and takes off, leaving Dean standing in the dust kicked up by the squealing tires. As he watches the car turn the corner and disappear, Dean can't help the sinking feeling in his stomach.

It isn't until Bobby's hand claps him on the back that he's startled out of the trance he didn't even know he was in.

"Come on, son, let's go inside and I'll get ya a beer."

Dean perks up and looks at Bobby, barely fighting a grin, because, really, what kind of nineteen-year-old would he be if he said no to that offer? "Thanks, Bobby."

Dean doesn't take the beer right away, though, instead he treks up the stairs into the small bedroom -- it's barely big enough for one person, but somehow Bobby has managed to squeeze two twin-sized beds into it despite the laws of science -- and tosses the bags down onto the bed closest to the door. He's not really all that surprised to see Sammy sitting on the opposite bed, his arms crossed and a pout on his lips; after all, it isn't the first time they've stayed here, and this has kind of been their bedroom for awhile now, and he doesn't really expect Sam to want to talk to either him or Bobby at the moment.

So he just spins on his heel to open the door, thinking maybe he'd get that beer and leave Sammy to sulk in peace for a while, because there was really no way to deal with him when he was in a mood like this other than let him be for a few minutes until he comes around.

Besides, eventually he'll get hungry.

But as Dean's hand turns the doorknob, Sammy's voice pipes up from behind him, startling him.

"How could you do that to me, Dean? You lied right to my face! I was supposed to be able to trust _you_ of all people. Dad was right. You were just using me," and Sammy sounds much younger than he really is, completely miserable and Dean can't help the way his chest aches at the words.

Dean expects to turn around and see tears in Sam's eyes, but when he finally does, his hand falling from the doorknob to rest uselessly at his side, his little brother's eyes are dry and narrowed at him. Although the anger on his face is really nothing new -- after all, Sam's always been a master at the art of teenage rebellion -- Dean's never really been on the receiving end of it before. Which just makes him all kinds of nervous.

"It wasn't like that, Sammy," Dean finally says lamely, not even really knowing what to say to dispute that, to tell him that it isn't true.

"Oh, what, you never thought I'd find out, right? I was never supposed to know that I was different? What kind of sick pleasure did you get out of it? Well, I hope that it at least gave you a good laugh." He spits out the words with venom thick in his voice, and Dean can't help but cringe, because he really can't say it's not true, because Sam _wasn't_ supposed to find out, at least not how he did. But it's not like Sammy's going to listen to what he has to say.

"Stop it, Sam," he says without much fire, knowing full well it isn't about to make his brother stop.

"No, Dean, not until you tell me what you were getting out of it." By the time he finishes the sentence, he's off the bed, and standing in front of Dean, his eyes narrowed again as he gives Dean a sort of sideways look, as if judging what he might say in his defense. But Dean doesn't say anything, just waits for Sam to continue, because he knows he will, and it's not at all disappointed by the biting words that follow. "Did you get off on knowing something I didn't for once? Did it make you feel good knowing that I had no clue? Or were you just so desperate for a fuck that you just didn't care?"

It's a low blow and Sam knows it.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Sam? It wasn't like that." His voice is still calm, but there's a hard edge to it as it leaves his throat, rough and angry, because he can't believe Sam could possibly think of it like that. That Dean would purposely not tell him because he wanted an easy fuck. Besides, there was more than enough to protest on his end that Sam shouldn't even dare to think something like that of him.

"Then what was it like, Dean? Please, indulge me," and he crosses his arms and stares expectantly at Dean with a raised eyebrow.

And the words, "I was trying to protect you!" burst forth from Dean in anger, because he can't hold it in anymore, he pushes Sam back a little, more than a little pissed off at this point. Sam stumbles, but catches himself, glaring at Dean.

And Sam doesn't take his words lying down. Not at all skipping a beat when he yells out, "Protect me from what? There's no monsters here, there's nothing to hurt me, except you. Are you honestly stupid enough to think that you could hide the truth from me forever?"

"Will you just listen to me, Sam?!"

They're both in each other's faces now, angry words and eyes stabbing unseen wounds into the other's flesh.

But Sam backs down first. Nostrils flaring and arms crossing once again.

"Fine, you want me to listen to you? I'm all ears, Dean. Let's hear what you cook up this time, shall we?"

Dean takes a deep breath to calm himself, and starts, eyes fixed on the floorboards just above Sam's toes.

"Ever since you were a little kid you wanted to be normal. You wanted to live in one place, you wanted to have friends, you wanted to play sports. I'm not stupid, Sammy. I know one day you're going to wake up and leave me--" he barely even catches himself on the words, and when he looks up, he knows Sam's caught it, but he can't let the truth be out there between them, so he continues like he never let it slip, "--all of this, and I didn't want you to lose your chance at normal before it even began."

Sam's face softens, a little, his hard mask of emotions cracking, but there's still anger at the edges of it. "You couldn't protect me from it forever. No one's that good."

"No, but I could have protected you until I could do something about it, until I could have fixed it."

Anger flares back to life in Sam's eyes, but his stance is still relaxed. "And what if I don't want it fixed? Shouldn't it be my choice?"

Honestly, Dean never thought about it like that. Sure, it was Sam's choice, but why the hell wouldn't he want it fixed?

"I don't want to see you give up this chance. What if -- what if further down the road you change your mind and the chance is gone?"

"Does it bother you, Dean?"

He glances up at Sam's words, looking at him with questioning eyes.

Sam just continues. "Does it repulse you to touch me because of it?"

And well, Dean's shocked that Sam could even think that. After all, if he really honestly thought it was disgusting, he sure as shit wouldn't have touched it, and definitely not put it in his mouth, for Christ's sake.

"No!" he all but shouts, trying to resist the urge to shake some sense into his little brother. "Of course not, don't be stupid. If it bothered me, you'd know. I'm not that good of an actor."

Sam's features soften completely at the words, a small smile threatening the corners of his mouth, as if he'd heard all he needed to.

"Then I don't want to get it fixed."

"Sammy, you can't base that decision solely on me." Dean sighs deeply as he says it, frustrated, but at the same time, happiness is bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Sam just looks at him for a long moment, and Dean shifts back and forth on his feet, uncomfortable with Sam's scrutiny, especially with the fingers of excitement curling in his belly.

"Yes, I can. You're the only person I'd ever even consider changing myself for."

Dean has a comeback about Sam being an emotional girl right on the tip of his tongue, but he never gets a chance to say it, because Sam presses his lips against Dean's, quickly shutting off all smartass comments.

It's not exactly hard to coax Dean into kissing back. Or into letting Sam push him down on the bed. And he's certainly not going to complain when Sam breaks the kiss just for a moment to haul his shirt over his head.

It's a little different, letting Sammy take the reins for once, but certainly not unpleasant by any means. After all, Sam's kissing his neck and unbuttoning his jeans, and well, Dean won't lie, he kind of likes where this is going. A lot. It's been a little while since he let a guy shove him flat on his back, and he didn't realize how much he'd missed it until his brother was the one towering over him and straddling him with powerful thighs. He'd be a liar if he didn't say that the strength showing in Sam's body is making him hot as hell.

It also helps that Sam's hand is palming Dean's cock through his jeans, which it makes a valiant effort for his little brother to notice it, and maybe get a little more intimate attention.

Obliging, Sam wrestles Dean's jeans down his hips, obviously eager for the skin-on-skin contact that most guys his age, and -- hell, he can admit it -- Dean would kill for. And then Sam's hand wraps around Dean's hard-on with awkward fumbling fingers, and Dean realizes that Sam's never really touched him like this before. He's completely bare to his little brother's fingers and can't stop the tremor that goes through him and straight to his groin at the very thought. It's one thing to have Sam's hot mouth around his dick, but something completely different, something more akin to the amount of intimacy that they both feel, to have Sam's fingers and the thick palm of his hand slip-sliding over his erection.

Dean lifts his head from its place on the bed, curiosity washing over him at the feeling of his Sammy's hand on him, and he can barely contain the sudden complex he has at the sight of his dick dwarfed by his little brother's huge hand. Dean knows he's not exactly a small guy, not by any stretch of the imagination, really, but it's unbelievable how small he looks with Sam's fucking Sasquatch hand wrapped around him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sam folds in on himself, shoulders hunching forward, but Dean doesn't let him stay that way. No, instead, he grabs hold of the front of Sam's shirt that he -- much to Dean's frustration -- has yet to lose, and drags Sam's lips down to his.

And he knows that Sammy gets it, truly gets it, when his body uncurls, broad shoulders held higher, and he's prying Dean's lips apart with his tongue, that streak of dominance that Dean's loving back with a vengeance. The feel of Sam's strong hand encircling his bicep and holding him down is surprising, but it sends a thrill though Dean all the same.

So far, their sex life has been fairly timid, and well, extremely vanilla -- something which Dean wants to blame on the hypospadias, but it's probably more because Sam's his baby brother than anything else -- but this is definitely showing a side of Sam's that Dean could quickly grow to like an awful lot. Especially when Sam draws his arms above his head and grips them nearly painfully hard, thrusting his hips against Dean, his hard cloth-covered cock sliding against Dean's bare one. The friction and burn of the rough fabric against his leaking cock is almost enough for Dean to lose it completely and end the game rather prematurely.

But Sam stops before he falls over the edge, letting go of his arms and shimmying down his thighs a little. Dean gives him what he hopes is less of a desperate, _'holy shit I'm going to die if you leave me hanging'_ look and more of a big brother, _'what the fuck do you think you're doing?'_ look. But then when Sam's fingers reach for the button of his jeans, Dean thanks Christ, hell, even Buddha and Allah that Sammy's not going to stop, and that he's finally losing some of that fucking clothing standing between Dean and perfection. And he's not disappointed when he abandons the unzipping of the jeans to yank his shirt over his head instead and toss it across the tiny room, before he swings his leg over the side of the bed and off Dean to finally kick off his shoes and remove his pants and boxers in one quick movement.

He's admiring Sam's stiff cock, jutting out from dark curls, when his brother seems to realize that even though Dean's dick is flying free, the rest of him is still denim-clad, which in Dean's experience, tends to make the actual fucking a little difficult. But Sam's a smart kid and it doesn't take him long to realize this as well, and quickly goes about fixing the problem, muscling Dean's boots off without even untying them before he separates him from his jeans and tosses them over his shoulder unceremoniously.

And then Sam skips right to the point, obviously eager to join Dean on the bed once again, and just get on with the whole thing, not that Dean can blame him, because he's feeling pretty much the same way right now. But Sam's asking,

"Where are the condoms and lube?"

And Dean doesn't even have to think about the answer of, "Side pocket of my duffel."

He's just thankful that Sam doesn't waste any time, instantly crossing the little room to rummage through Dean's bag.

But judging by the sounds of frustration coming from Sammy, his search is being rather fruitless. His concerns are confirmed when Sam says, "Uh, Dean...?"

He lifts himself up on his elbows and looks over at his younger brother holding up what is clearly a very empty bottle of lube.

"I think you forgot to put the top back on tight last time we used it," Sammy tells him with drawn together eyebrows and a deep frown.

"Fuck," is about the most intelligent thing Dean can get out, nearly shouting it in frustration, knowing that he's not going to get to be fucked today. He falls back to the bed and covers his face with his hands, fingernails digging into his skin at the too-hard pressure. Clearly, someone, somewhere has a very bad sense of humor because it's pretty obvious that there's a curse or something on their sex life. Hell, if he believed in God, he'd say it was his way of intervening with their unnatural love -- but he's pretty sure some cursed object or witch needs their ass taken out immediately.

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him and when he peeks at Sam through his fingers, he's not disappointed to see a look of concern on his face. "Well," Sammy starts, and Dean's pretty sure this suggestion isn't about to help the situation any, "we could just not use --"

And of course he's right. "Oh _hell_ no," Dean tells him with steel, not even waiting for Sam to finish the sentence because it's best to just get the idea out of Sam's head now. Besides, Dean's been down that road before when he's been a pinch, and no one really wins. Spit is never really enough, especially since he's not exactly taken it from anyone in a while now, and Sam's hung like fucking Godzilla. It's uncomfortable enough for both parties without a gigantic cock going in someone's ass. And besides, he doesn't really need Bobby figuring it all out when he's limping down the stairs later, especially given the fact that even when he tries to muffle himself, Dean has an awful hard time keeping his mouth shut.

"Well, you could just do m--"

"No way, Sam," Dean vetoes the idea quickly, because clearly, even for all his smarts, Sam doesn't realize that reversing the situation doesn't really make it any better. Dean couldn't bring himself to even try it without lube, far too afraid to hurt Sam, and aside from that, Dean's not exactly small, either. He's amazed enough that he didn't hurt Sam the first time they had sex, even _with_ a shitload of lube.

Sam gives a sharp huff, obviously getting to his last nerve with Dean, before he says, "Well, then why don't you borrow a car from Bobby and go to a drugstore?"

Dean actually considers this one for a moment while Sam gets up from the floor and perches on the edge of the bed, his hip brushing against Dean's as he looks down at him for answers.

Finally, Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh and throws his hands above his head, nearly startling Sammy right off the bed before he says with a voice laced thick with sarcasm, "Oh yeah, I can picture it now. _'Hey, Bobby, I'm going to borrow the truck so I can go buy lube and condoms so my fifteen-year-old brother can fuck me in the ass! Thanks, man. You're a life saver!'_ Yeah, I bet _that'll_ go over well."

Sam huffs again, and says with a biting laugh, "Well, it's either that or we don't fuck at all, it's your choice."

Honestly, how's Dean supposed to argue with that?

It's really no wonder he finds himself wandering downstairs with a purpose after a rather drawn-out blow job and a promise to be ready and waiting when he comes back.

Bobby offers him a smile and a beer before Dean turns him down and says, "No, Bobby, not yet, I need to get something from town that I... uh, forgot. I was wondering if I could borrow a car."

Bobby raises an eyebrow, and much to Dean's surprise, hands over a set of keys without much question.

"Sammy's not going to be angry that you're leaving him here, is he?"

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit at the innocent question before he manages a, "Nah, he's still pretty pissed off at Dad." He's pretty sure Bobby knows it's a lie, but he doesn't say anything, just lets Dean slam the door behind him.

He's pretty thankful that Sammy offered to suck him off before he left -- even if he still hasn't gotten down the whole swallowing part and spit most of it back onto Dean and the sheets he was lying on -- because the drive into town is longer than he remembers, and he actually gets lost on the way to the little local drugstore and ends up very nearly driving the car into a tree before he swings into the tiny parking lot and fishes out his wallet. Thankfully, he has more than enough for both condoms for Sam's giant cock, and for the lube, because he's not really willing to let Sam bang him without either one. Lube is a necessity, but condoms make things a lot cleaner, and Dean would rather live without that sticky, squishy feeling inside him after the sex is done. Trying that was probably not the smartest move he'd ever made, especially considering the reputation the other guy had, which is yet another reason that Sam should probably wear a condom. Even if Sam's had his semen in his mouth on more than one occasion, and he probably already has anything that Dean might. Either way, condoms are just as important as the lube.

He pushes the door open and immediately begins searching for the condom aisle, just wanting to get out of there as quick as possible so Sam can actually _fuck_ him, instead of getting him all hot and bothered just to stop right before the actual act. If he has to wait too much longer, he's pretty afraid he'll explode with sexual frustration.

Luckily he finds the aisle after a short search, and is on his way, even if he does get a rather interesting look from the girl at the check-out when he lays down two boxes of condoms, one magnum XXL and one of normal, run-of-the-mill box of lubricated condoms, and a fairly large bottle of KY jelly. She's staring at him with wide-eyed wonder as she rings up the purchases and Dean doesn't even bother flirting with her like normal, just thrusts the money at her and takes his bag without waiting for the change.

When he gets back to the house, Bobby is in the study, looking pretty occupied with a leather bound book, so Dean sneaks back upstairs without so much as a hello and greets Sammy with a wide grin as he holds the bag out to him.

Sam just bats Dean's arm aside and pulls him down on top of him on the bed, before he flips them over so Dean's underneath him, his lips never leaving Dean's all the while.

It's a long while before either of them get back up again, the smell of sex hanging thick in the air while they lie panting on the bed. Dean's muscles are aching from strain and Sam's half-draped over him, his cock still in Dean's ass, even though they've been over for a few minutes now, neither of them making any move to get up, both thoroughly sated.

It's different, when Sam comes inside him, and Dean only half-expected the way it fills the condom from an unusual angle, making him wonder if the condom even works the same way for Sam as it does for him, especially when come dribbles down the crack of his ass, leaking from the rubber ring. Or maybe Dean has just overestimated his size. But it certainly felt like the right size when Dean had rolled it over the tip of his cock, and it definitely seemed that big when Sam was pushing it inside him inch by inch. No, it was most definitely Sam's hypospadias that was creating the problem here, not Dean being a little too proud of his little brother's size.

Finally, their breathing returns to normal, and Sam grips himself to pull out, Dean's body protesting the loss of Sam's cock.

Dean sighs and lets his head fall back against the pillows as Sam pulls the condom off and ties it before staring stupidly at Dean.

He just raises an eyebrow at Sammy holding the used condom by the rubber knot. "What?"

Sam looks around the room, before he turns back to Dean with wide eyes, looking pretty lost, which is not exactly a common look for Sammy.

Dean pushes himself up to his elbows and looks around too, confused as to why Sammy would possibly want to still be holding the disgusting used condom.

"Where am I supposed to throw this away?" Sammy points to the condom pinched between his fingers with a wrinkle of his nose.

And well, shit, Dean had forgotten about that part. Bobby doesn't exactly expect Sam and Dean to spend a lot of time in their room, so really, there's no point in putting a garbage can in there that all of them will probably forget to empty anyway, which, before Sam and Dean started fucking each other, had never really been a problem. But now Sam's sitting there with a used condom in his hand and Dean's not seeing a whole lot of options here.

Sam looks over his shoulder at the door as if reading Dean's mind.

"You're kidding, right?" Sam asks, disbelief and shock showing clearly on his face.

Dean just shrugs his shoulders. "Well, it's either one of us takes it downstairs and gets rid of it, or you stand there and hold it all night, I mean, I'm not seeing another way around it."

Sam's face pulls into one of great disgust and stares at Dean like he just told him to murder babies. "I am _not_ sneaking down there to throw out a condom I just used to fuck my brother with while Bobby is still down there."

"Quit being such a drama queen, Samantha, and hand it over." Dean rolls his eyes as he spits the words out, snatching the used condom from Sammy's fingers and levering himself off the bed before Sam can protest.

And Dean's not really too surprised when he _doesn't_ protest, but he _is_ shocked when he opens the door and Sammy doesn't say one goddamned word about the fact that he doesn't have a lick of clothing on, just standing out in the hallway bare-assed naked for anyone to see.

Quickly, he steps back in and nearly slams the door in his haste to stay out of Bobby's eyesight, glaring daggers at Sam the whole time, who is rolling on the bed with laughter, his naked body more distracting to Dean than his mocking.

"I was wondering if you were going to put pants on," Sam says, mirth thick in his voice as laughter rolls off him in waves. It takes a lot of will-power for Dean _not_ to throw the used condom at his little brother's head, his arm already half-raised to do it when resistance and intelligence kick in and he realizes that maybe it isn't such a good idea because Sam is lying on the only clean bed. So instead he opts to step into his discarded pants and attempts to pull them up one-handed. Which doesn't really work too well, and Dean's never been so happy when Sam stops laughing and takes pity on the sad scene that Dean's creating, getting up to pull Dean's pants up around his hips and buttoning them, then yanking his soiled t-shirt over his head. Dean would complain, but really he just wants to get rid of the fucking condom in his hands, more than he want to change out of his semen-stained shirt. Because, of course Sammy has to always grab _his_ shirt to wipe this off with. Dean doesn't know why he would think it would change now, just because Sam's on top for once.

He's just hopeful that Bobby won't realize right away that the crusty stuff on Dean's shirt is, well, him.

"There," Sam says with a grin as he pulls Dean's arm through the hole, then steps back to admire his masterpiece. "Now get rid of that thing," and he points to the condom Dean's still clutching in his right hand with a sneer of disgust evident on his face. Which only makes Dean want to throw it at him again -- close range this time as Sam is less than a foot away from him -- at the mere suggestion of it being disgusting, after all, Dean's the one holding it and it's not even his come in the stupid piece of rubber.

But he resists the urge again, and turns on his heel, sticking his head out the door to check for any sign of Bobby before he opens the door wider and wanders out of it, holding the rubber out in front of him like a lantern to light his way.

The kitchen and its garbage can is just mere feet in front of him when Dean finally spots Bobby standing _in_ the kitchen of all places, standing above the stove and a large pot that Dean can only assume is dinner.

Damn if Dean doesn't have the worst fucking luck, especially when Bobby turns around and Dean's not entirely fast enough putting the goddamned thing behind his back.

So he's standing in the middle of Bobby's kitchen staring at him with wide guilty eyes and holding evidence of... well, of letting his brother fuck him, right there in his hands as clear as fucking day. As if offering it to Bobby on a silver platter, Dean just dumbly holds it out in front of him probably bearing an expression similar to the one Sammy wore the first time Dean ever caught him with his hands down his pants when he was eleven.

But much to Dean's surprise, Bobby's reaction is to only sigh and say, "Why do I get the feeling that me letting you take the car probably somehow helped you find your way to this point?"

Dean doesn't budge from his spot for a long moment before Bobby finally turns back to the pot boiling over on the stove and tells him, "Set the table, would you?" Then he looks back to Dean with a furrowed brow before he adds, "But better wash your hands first. I don't know where you've been, son, but I bet I don't wanna either."

It takes a long while before Dean can process the fact that Bobby _isn't_ disgusted, before he can even so much as think about moving to drop the condom in the trash, then cleans his hands with water so hot it almost burns his skin. But at this point a little pain doesn't matter to him, because he was pretty sure that Bobby was going to flay him alive when he found out, just like his father looked like he had wanted to do. But then again, Bobby's always been a lot more easygoing than his father. Though Dean never exactly thought he'd be open-minded about gay incest of all things. In fact, that's not really something Dean thought _anyone_ would be open-minded about.

Bobby, however, in Dean's experience has always been full of surprises. Take for example when he turns around and asks Dean, "Is your lady friend going to stay for dinner?"

And Dean's only reaction is to stare blankly at Bobby before he answers with, "What are you talking about, Bobby?" Which he knows is stupid but he can't stop himself from saying it, a sort of nervous verbal diarrhea.

Bobby just raises and eyebrow at him. "The girl that you snuck upstairs? I know that condom didn't just fill itself, son. And don't tell me Sammy didn't have something to say about it when you brought her here, I'll bet --" There's something to say for how quickly Bobby puts the pieces together, and Dean can feel the dread tightening its iron grip on his belly as Bobby stops in mid-sentence, and just _stares_ at him like he's never seen Dean before in his life, before he takes in a long shuddering breath and looks Dean in the eyes and asks, "There is no girl, is there?"

Dean doesn't answer his question, and not because he knows that Bobby's not looking for an answer, but because he's too frozen, staring into space with a spoon raised half-way to the table to do anything. He's waiting for it any minute now, the disgust and the accusation.

"No," Dean tells him bluntly when he finally finds his voice, cracked and barely there and Bobby stares with wide, disbelieving eyes, like Dean just told him Elvis is still alive and living in his pants.

"Jesus, son, you could at least _try_ to lie to me," Bobby tells him as he steps forward to grab his arm and Dean resists the powerful urge to shake him off. But Bobby's grip just tightens like he can sense what Dean's thinking and holds him in place. "Is this why your daddy left you here?" Bobby's looking him in the eyes and Dean can only nod numbly in reply, too caught up in _'what the fuck do I do now oh shit oh shit oh shit'_ to properly answer him.

"I can--" Dean starts, his voice not coming out properly as his tongue has somehow just swollen up to five times its size and he can't seem to form words right no matter how hard he tries. Somehow though, they come. "Sammy and I, we can pack our bags if you don't want us here, I mean, I'd underst--"

But Dean doesn't get it all out, because Bobby cuts him off and looks at him like he's contemplating either slapping the stupid out of Dean, or pulling him into a hug, but instead replies with, "Goddamn it, Dean, I'm not kicking you out of here. A guy's gotta sow his wild oats and experiment, I was young once, too, believe it or not, but you and Sammy, you've gone a bit overboard with it."

Wrenching his arm out of Bobby's grip, he can barely contain the anger bubbling over inside of him at the words, and he knows that Bobby doesn't understand, and that he's trying to help, but it's not fucking like that, and Dean doesn't know what will get him to understand. So he yells, and can't stop wincing when the words fly out of his mouth, because it's not really Bobby he's angry at, but rather his father, and the world for not understanding them. He can't stop the words, though, because they come shooting out of him like steam from a teapot, fast and unstoppable, "I don't fucking _expect_ you to understand! Do you have any idea what it's like to wake up one day and realize you want to fuck your little brother? If I knew any way to stop it, don't you think I would? It's not like I want to fucking be like this! So why don't you --"

The feel of Bobby's hand striking his cheek disrupts Dean's words, and he can only blink owlishly at the man in front of him, all his anger gone in an instant as he takes in the look on Bobby's face, soft around the edges despite the way his eyes are narrowed at Dean, a sign of his own anger.

When he speaks though, it's lacking the harsh edge that Dean is expecting -- the biting edge that his father's would've been sure to have -- instead, Bobby's gaze turns sad and he says, "No, I don't know what it's like. And I sure as shit don't ever wanna know."

Most of the fight is gone from Dean, and he's nearly limp within Bobby's grasp, his body sagging against the table when he hears, "Dean? Bobby? What's wrong?"

They're both startled, Dean can see Bobby jump a little in surprise at his voice, probably forgetting all about Sam and anything other than the conversation at hand, and although Dean doesn't start, he can feel his eyes growing wide.

And then the tension that had finally leaked out between them just moments ago, is back with a vengeance.

"Sam," Bobby says, desperation thick in his voice and it seems like Sam knows, just like that, what's happened.

"Bobby."

Dean can tell Sam tries to be strong, but it's one thing to stand up to your father and something completely different to stand up to a man who acts as your father.

"Are you going to blame Dean too?" Sam asks after a long moment of awkward silence, all of them simultaneously staring at each other and trying not to look at each other at the same time. Which should be impossible, but they're all managing fairly well. Or at least they were until Sam spoke and stepped towards Dean, encircling his wrist with his huge hand. Dean suppresses the urge to shiver at the feel of Sam's fingers tracing along the veins and tendons of Dean's wrist and instead closes his eyes and gives a soft gasp, before he opens his eyes again and stares Bobby in the face. Bobby who's staring down at where their bodies are connected looking a little green around the gills.

He's waiting for Bobby to say something about them, something about how it _is_ Dean's fault, or how they make him sick or anything hurtful really, because it's pretty clear that he's miles away from comfort as he watches Sam's fingers intertwine with his, but instead he surprises Dean by saying, "I'm not blaming either of you. I just hope your daddy comes to his senses and realizes it's no one's fault."

Dean's pretty sure Bobby thinks it is someone's fault despite his words, but he doesn't say it, keeps it to himself like most of his thoughts and turns back to the stove, opening a cupboard to pull out some bowls.

"I hope you boys worked up an appetite, because I made a little too much," Bobby says after a few beats, and Dean can feel Sam relax against him before his brother's fingers tighten around his and he smiles wide. Dean can't fight a smile either, knowing full well that they are pretty much all clear with Bobby and thankful towards the man that he's as open-minded as he is, because most people would _not_ be okay with this.

Even if Bobby won't look them in the eyes all through dinner, Dean's just thankful Bobby let them stay at all.

Neither him nor Sam mention the scene with Bobby later, though, when they're back in the room, pushing the tiny beds together so they can fall asleep together. Which, thank god, because Dean's really not in the mood to deal with any of Sam's whiny shit at the moment and any possible emotional scene that could happen, because he really just wants to fall into bed and pass the fuck out for at least twelve hours.

Sam seems to have other ideas in mind, though, when they're finally lying down together, Dean sprawled across both mattresses with Sam tucked in close to his side. Dean's half asleep already when he feels Sam's hand snake down inside his pajama pants, fingertips stroking his cock with a soft, barely there, pressure.

Dean tries in vain to ignore the fingers for about point two seconds before his dick decides to harden in curiosity. He can feel Sam's soft laugh, just a quick breath of air against the side of his neck, when a moan slips out of his throat by accident.

"That's so unfair, I was almost asleep," Dean finally says, cracking his eyes open to look down at his little brother. He can't really see Sam's face, though, because his mouth is sucking hard against Dean's neck for a long moment, before he pulls away, his swollen lips parting in a wide grin as he lifts his hand to wipe away the line of glistening saliva creating a pathway to Dean's neck. Dean's pretty sure he's going to be hiding a hickey tomorrow, and even though he cringes at the idea of trying to hide it or face Bobby _really_ not being able to look him in the eyes, he's pretty sure it's worth it when Sam leans down and kisses him, his tongue instantly pushing into Dean's mouth.

"Wanna suck you off again, Dean," Sam says when he pulls away just a little, his lips still a light pressure against Dean's. "I want your huge cock in my mouth," and he can feel Sam's dick twitch against his hip at the words, and his own cock stands at full attention, thinking about Sam's hot mouth around him, wondering if maybe this time, Sam will swallow him all the way down like last time.

"God, yes," is all Dean can really manage to get out, because _fuck,_ does he want Sam to make him come, to force Sam to swallow it down when they're all done. He's pretty sure Sam will still spit it all over him again, like the last two times, but the idea of Sam's mouth filled with his hot come has him so excited, he has to circle his hand around the base of his dick to keep from coming before Sam can even move away from his mouth and down his body.

Sam just pushes himself onto his elbows and and grins down at Dean when he moans out loud again.

He's lying to himself if he thinks he's going to last more than two seconds with the way Sam teases him, rolls Dean's balls in his hand while he fucking swallows down everything Dean has. Dean doesn't tell Sam how close he is to coming, though, instead says,

"Pull back a little and relax your throat." Well, he more or less pants it, and he's pretty sure Sam's only going to understand about half of it, but he does it, drawing just the head of Dean's cock into his mouth, before Dean spills his come into his little brother's mouth.

And he's proud that this time, Sam manages to swallow about half of Dean's semen down before he spits the rest all over Dean's stomach with a look of disgust.

"God, Dean, you really need to eat some fruit or something, that shit is nasty."

Sam's face is scrunched up, his mouth opening with a slight gagging noise, and for a second Dean's afraid Sam's going to bring up everything he just swallowed down, but eventually, Sam's face returns to normal and Dean just gives a snort of laughter at him, pulling him down on top of him, secretly pleased with Sam's protests that he's getting him messy with the come drying on his stomach.

"Shut up or I won't return the favor," Dean orders with a grin before he flips them over and sinks down take Sam's hard cock in his mouth, loving the way the pre-come oozes out the hole on the bottom of his dick and hits his tongue.

Sam doesn't last long, either, and Dean's rewarded pretty quickly with the taste of Sam's come, swallowing it down before he flops back down on the mattresses next to Sam, nearly asleep before his head even hits the pillows.

He feels Sam curl back against him, his face tucked into Dean's neck once more, his one leg pushing in between Dean's thighs, right before he drops off, content with his arms around his little brother, drawing him impossibly closer.

It's been just over a month and although Dean loves being able to spend all day in their bedroom without any questions from Bobby, Dean can tell that Sam's growing nervous with every day that passes and they don't hear from their father.

Not that Dean can rightly blame him. Though, nervous isn't really the word he'd use for himself, more like, fucking terrified that Dad left them both here and doesn't plan on coming back. Dean could understand leaving him, after all, he's the older one, the one that obviously corrupted Sammy, but to leave Sam here too, seems so unfair.

"Don't worry, boys, I'm sure his hunt is just taking a little longer to wrap up than he thought." Bobby's reassurance falls pretty flat, though, and Dean is pretty sure Bobby can see it in their faces when they retire to their bedroom every night, with their eyes on the floor and silence between them.

Even the sex has petered off into nothing. It's a little hard to feel in the mood when there's a gnawing sensation in your gut telling you that this, the sex between them, is what chased their father off to begin with. Dean knows it's stupid, but he resists Sam's rather feeble attempts in the hope that if they can somehow manage to _stop_ , then maybe Dad will come back, and it will all be okay again.

In reality, it's just making Sam upset and moody, and giving Dean a serious case of blue balls after so many nights of going to bed unsatisfied.

That changes, though, when he wakes up early on Saturday morning. He's expecting to spend a lazy day sleeping in long past noon and fighting a deep depression knowing it's all his fault, but instead he jerks awake at the feel of a hot mouth engulfing his throbbing erection, and in the end, he quickly gives in. Just like any man in his position would, so long as blood is still pumping through his veins, though Dean bets anyone else who found himself in this situation with their younger brother might not readily agree. Dean's never really been like everyone else, though -- it would be a challenge to achieve that given the family business of hunting evil and lusting after his underaged brother -- so a seven A.M. wake up call, with Sam's demanding mouth acting as the morning crowing of the rooster, suits Dean's tastes just fine.

So maybe Dean's a little fucked up in the head, but Sammy's looking up at him through a thick fan of dark lashes and he really can't bring himself to care about anything beyond his hot mouth. He's far too caught up in the way Sam's lips are stretched around his aching cock, taking it down to the fucking base until his nose is buried in Dean's thatch of curls, to think about a little incest.

He's not really sure if he'll ever get used to the idea of Sam sucking cock like a pro -- well, a pro with no grace in spitting or swallowing the end product of the sucking-- but it doesn't mean he doesn't love it when the head of his dick hits the back of his brother's throat and he can feel Sam's muscles, slick with saliva and pre-come, working over his length.

Given the situation of exactly how long it's been since Dean actually got any sort of stimulation that didn't come from a quick jerk off session in the shower, and the way Sam's staring up at him, Dean's amazed he holds out as long as he does. It's Sam's fingers pushing past the resistance of his body, however, that sends him over the edge, his fingers pulling at Sam's hair with a (manly) yelp of surprise when his cock explodes inside Sam's mouth.

It seems like in the end, the best thing to do for Sam, is not to tell him he's about to come. Maybe it's the surprise at finding himself with a mouthful of come that gets his throat muscles working or maybe it's the lack of nervous anticipation, but Sam doesn't spill a single drop, instead drinking it down like an obedient child before pulling off Dean's cock to lick his lips, a sour expression on his face.

"Seriously, Dean, I'm going to see if Bobby has a can of pineapples in the morning. I have no idea how I managed to get that past my gag reflex."

Dean doesn't even dignify that with a response, still too content to stare at Sam's wet and swollen lips in wonder and amazement, merely grunting in satisfaction, words pretty much eluding him at the moment.

It changes, though, when Sam leans forward, his moist breath hot against Dean's ear, his attention immediately shifting to the way Sam's hands are drawing circles over his chest, fingers flicking his nipples on occasion. "Wanna fuck you, Dean," he whispers, and Dean's just trying hard to keep up with his brother's quickly changing moods.

He gives a long groan, baring his throat to Sam to show his compliance and Sam seems to understand, teeth nipping gently at Dean's Adam's apple before he leans over and opens the side-table drawer, drawing out a condom and their bottle of KY, his other hand never leaving Dean's body, fingers slowly drawing a line down Dean's front.

When Sam leans back, fingers already slick with lube, Dean just obediently spreads his legs, leaning back against the pillows to give Sam better access. Sam doesn't even really give him a warning, just drives right in, fingers stretching with precision, his tongue slipping between his teeth in concentration in a way that Dean thinks is fucking adorable, though he'll take that secret to the grave.

He can't stop the way his hips thrust up when Sam's fingers prod at his prostate, his dick taking a half-hearted interest in the situation happening below despite having just been satisfied. It only takes a few more strokes of his brother's probing digits before his hand is slipping down to stroke at his rapidly growing erection, unable to stop the whining mewls that escape (though he'll be sure to deny them later).

Luckily, Sam puts him out of his misery pretty quickly, lifting Dean's legs and hooking them over his shoulders before he slides into home, leaving Dean zero time to adjust to the idea before he's off to the races.

Sam doesn't really last long at all, and Dean can tell how close he is to coming with just the raggedness of his breathing and the way his face scrunches up in concentration, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips before he sucks the bottom one in between his teeth. It only take a few moments of watching Sam nibble at his bottom lip before Dean just plain can't take it anymore. He drags Sam's mouth down to his, the fucking adorableness of the whole thing too much for Dean to bear any longer.

It only takes just that, a short touch of tongue on tongue, before Sam's come is rushing inside him, heat spreading through him before it catches in the condom and gets forced out the tight rubber. It's always a strange sensation for Dean when Sam comes inside of him, and he's not really sure if he'll ever learn to like it, though it doesn't mean he ever wants to stop, and it's no different this time as come dribbles from the condom and makes its way down his ass-crack.

Dean's discomfort, however, is short-lived as Sam quickly notices the bit of stray jizz and pulls out before he slips down Dean's body and presses his tongue against the bit of offending semen leaking from Dean's used hole.

Although it feels fucking fantastic -- Dean's dick throbbing hot against his stomach could attest to that -- he's still too fucking shocked to even wrap his mind around it, let alone really enjoy it. After all, before fifteen minutes ago, Sam refused to even swallow his come, and now here he is, kneeling between Dean's thighs licking his own from Dean's used ass.

And holy _fuck_ , even the mere thought of Sam's tongue in such a sensitive place sends him over the edge again, much less the actual feeling of Sam's slick muscle against his skin, and in the end he's left completely boneless and wrung out on the soiled sheets as Sam raises his head from Dean's nether regions and grins up at him.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sammy," Dean all but gasps out, voice sex-rough and thinly veiled in wonderment.

Sam just lets out a short laugh. "I take it you liked it," he says, mirth playing across his features and making him look his fifteen years and making Dean feel only vaguely guilty.

"You wouldn't swallow my load, but you'll lick your own outta my ass..." Dean trails off, wonder still thick in his voice, and he's sure he's wearing a dumbfounded look on his face considering how dumbfounded he feels.

Sam just shrugs like it's no big deal and looks a little shifty before he murmurs, "Yeah, well, I eat my fruits. Doesn't taste as bad as yours."

Dean doesn't know whether to sputter in a completely undignified manner or laugh as Sam leans over him and drops the used condom into the wastebasket that Bobby had given them after that first awkward day. In the end, he lets out a long bark of laughter as he rolls over to pin Sam beneath his body, content to spend the rest of today returning the favor.

He never gets the chance though.

The phone rings throughout the house around mid-afternoon, the sun streaming in through the blinds alerting Dean to the fact that they've drifted off to sleep for far longer than either of them intended.

He's annoyed, at first, when Bobby doesn't immediately scramble for the phone, but Dean realizes pretty quickly that most likely, Bobby's not even around (a habit Dean noticed he started to get into when Sam and Dean started to retire to their bedroom in the middle of the day), probably out in the yard somewhere tinkering with some car engine. He rolls off the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh and pulls on a pair of boxers that he's pretty sure belong to Sam as he speeds out of the room towards the kitchen.

The phone stops its insistent noise, though, before Dean can get down the stairs, Bobby's gruff voice answering in its place.

"John?"

Dean tenses at the name, his whole body going rigid as he stands frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Bobby's shoulders tighten as he talks.

"The boys were worried about you, thought maybe something happened."

There's a long silence as Bobby listens and Dean's fingers tighten against the wooden door-frame, ears picking up the muted whisper of his father's rough voice through the receiver. He can only imagine the lies that must pass so easily over his lips, like he actually believes them to be true. Like it was really another important hunt that kept him away, and not the fact that his sons are fucking each other stupid every night.

Dean's fingers are beginning to ache with the strain, his knuckles long since gone white, as Bobby grunts into the phone before he says, "Your boys miss you, John." It doesn't even begin to describe what they feel, actually: hurt, betrayed, abandoned; but Bobby's always been better at summing things up than Dean has.

There's a short pause in the conversation, then, "Fine, I'll see when you get here," before Bobby none-too-gently hangs the phone back on the hook with a long-suffering sigh. At least Dean can see the tension leak out of his body before he turns and sees Dean standing there.

"How long before he gets here?"

Dean hasn't even opened his mouth to ask yet when Sam surprises him. He doesn't know how long Sam's been standing there, but it's obviously long enough.

Dean releases his strangle-hold on the door-frame, his fingers cramping up as he turns to stare at his little brother, only slightly startled by his presence.

"Tomorrow," Bobby replies before Dean can get a word in edgewise, and he'd be annoyed about the whole thing if this weren't such a big deal, if he weren't freaking out just a little bit -- or a lot -- about seeing his father so soon. It's not that he wouldn't welcome Dad back with open arms, but it seems like such a short time to prepare for something that seems so big, like the whole of his and Sam's futures rest on that moment.

Sam must be thinking much of the same because Dean can see the anxiety on Sam's face plain as day, as well as the fear present in his gaze. Dean can't blame him for it one bit. He has his own butterflies to take care of at the moment without worrying about Sam's as well. But Dean always worries about Sam, whether he wants to or not.

"What if he doesn't want us back?" Sammy asks, his bottom lip pushed out, making him look all but five years old, especially with his wide, hurt-filled eyes. It makes Dean want to kiss it better, to tell him everything will be alright, not to worry, that Dean would take it all away if he could. But he can't. Nothing he says is really going to make it better, and kissing Sam would only lead to an awkward scene with Bobby, so really, he can only stand there as Sam's eyes well up with unshed tears. He knows, though, that even if he told Sam everything would be alright, it would be a lie. His gut is telling him that no matter how much he wishes it weren't true, nothing's ever going to be like it was before, not now that Dad knows.

So he doesn't kiss Sam and reassure him. Instead he reaches out, one hand still braced on the doorway, holding him up because his knees feel weak, and brushes away the tears that are just beginning to leak from the edges of his brother's eyes. It doesn't take long, though, before Dean doesn't have a choice but to kiss Sam, because before he can say anything of comfort, Sam launches himself at Dean, his lips working quickly against his, Sam's arms going tight around his waist, pulling him as close to his body as humanly possible without being inside of Dean. Dean can barely breathe, Sam's holding him so tight, but he returns the kiss with fervor and wraps his arms around Sam too, watching Bobby's growing discomfort out of the corner of his eye.

Dean can't blame Bobby in the least when he clears his throat and makes a graceful exit, squeezing past them and out of the kitchen, leaving them sharing nipping kisses in the doorway while Sam's salty tears stain both of their faces.

Sam's emotional scene, however, seems to take a lot out of him, and it isn't long before Sam's slumped in Dean's arms, half-asleep and Dean left to prop himself up against the wooden frame, his face tucked against Sam's neck, planting soothing kisses.

Dean can't sleep for a long while after Sam drifts off in their shared bed, his mind too busy thinking about tomorrow. His arms tighten almost unconsciously around Sam's slender waist, his nose buried in Sam's hair.

It could go either way. Maybe Dad will have accepted facts as facts and will let them be, or maybe this will be the last time he gets to hold Sam like this. Or maybe Dad won't want to take them back at all. Dean doesn't really know what they would do if their dad drove off again without them, unable and unwilling to take them along. If he just left them to stay with Bobby until they could find their own way. Dean knows that Sam would see it as an opportunity for them to settle down, buy a house, but Dean... Well, he's pretty sure he couldn't do it.

Dean's fingers clutch against Sam's hip, relieved by the warmth of the naked skin that greets him, and wonders if he could give this all up if he had to. If he could just forget everything that's happened between them and just go on living life like a normal family. Dean really doubts it, even if Dad might believe it to be true.

He lifts his hand and pushes Sam's hair off his forehead, watching how peaceful his brother looks while he sleeps before Sam stirs and rests one hand just above Dean's heart, a contented smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dean drifts off like that, his hand against Sam's cheek, rubbing circles over the flesh with his thumb while Sam's hand stays in its place, a steady, solid heat against Dean's ribcage.

Morning comes far too early, the daylight polluting the peaceful darkness of their temporary bedroom, filling Dean's stomach with a heavy weight that settles firmly above his bladder, as nervous as a prisoner on his execution day.

Sam's fingers are brushing against his morning stubble, thumb caressing his jaw line when Dean finds consciousness, his little brother's eyes staring intently at him, wide and nervous like a frightened animal. Dean doesn't think anything he says will make it better, so he stays quiet, watching the way Sam's lips part, pink and swollen with sleep and the nervous way he bites at them when he thinks Dean doesn't notice.

They must lie there for hours, hands on each other's faces, lips pressing kisses against each other's, both of them listening for the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine.

It finally comes just after nightfall, when both of them are sitting on the edge of one of the little beds, their bags packed hours earlier after they showered together, one last hoorah before they faced their father, Sam's cock buried deep inside of Dean's body under the warm spray. They had fucked until the water ran cold, legs shaking with the weight of their orgasms and the knowledge of what awaited them, Sam's gentle hands washing his come from Dean's thighs as his body forced it back out. Dean doesn't like it, normally, when someone comes inside him, but this time, he needed it. He needed to feel Sam inside of him, to feel the flush of skin on skin, every inch of his brother's body pressed against his and filling him in every possible way. If nothing else, Dean just wanted their last time to be imprinted on his memories, just in case.

"This is it," Dean says with a shuddering sigh as Sam's fingers squeeze the base of his neck.

He's _not_ ready for this, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it's looking like it's now or never, and Dean doesn't want to be left behind again.

"What happens if he leaves us here?" Sam murmurs, as if afraid that Dean will hear it, though it's obvious, with the way Sam's lips whisper it against his shoulder, that it's meant for him, meant for Dean to take the hint and reassure Sammy.

And he does, offering Sam a soft smile as he bumps his shoulder against his brother's. "We'll figure it out, Sammy, you 'n me."

When they finally see their father, their shoulders touching as they stand together on Bobby's front porch, trying hard to draw strength from one another, he looks far from pleased to see them. His expression is sour, a deep scowl on his features as he leans against the Impala, one hand on the roof, as if anxious to leave.

It's not their father, though, that their eyes are drawn to, but rather Bobby, standing on the bottom porch step, shotgun at the ready as he stares down John Winchester like they're old enemies rather than old friends.

Dad's quiet the entire time as he stares at Bobby, eyes telling Dean exactly how little he really wants to be standing there before them, as he opens the trunk and takes Sam's bag from him. He knows their dad's trying hard not to show how pissed off he really is, he doesn't want to scare away his boys, he's sure -- or maybe he just doesn't want Bobby to make good on his threat -- but his eyes are constantly drawn back to his friend, a nervous edge to his anger. He can see it in the way his hands shake while he closes the trunk, slamming it a little harder than necessary, or the way sweat collects at his temples.

In the end, as they drive away from Singer Salvage Yard and Bobby grows smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, Dean doesn't know if he's grateful towards Bobby's willingness to make Dad do the right thing, or angry that Dad needed to be threatened at all. He can tell, though, when he glances over at Sam, by the anger clear as day across his features that the second seems to have hit the mark for Sam.

There's dead silence in the car for hours, not even the sound of the radio to cover the stifling tension that has Dean holding his breath, trying hard not to make a noise to disrupt the quiet, knowing that their father is still fuming in the driver's seat, his shoulders tense, although his face is impassive.

None of them have spoken or looked at each other since they left Bobby's, Sam and Dean sitting in the back seat with their shoulders tucked against each other, their hands in their laps, neither of them brave enough to sit up front with their dad, or to even breathe too loud for that matter. Dean's waiting impatiently for Dad to just snap like a rubber band that's been pulled too tight, thinking over and over again, _I did that, it's my fault._

It isn't until they pull off the road and into a used car lot sometime just pass daybreak the next morning that anyone breaks the thick, suffocating silence. Sam has long since passed out, leaning hard against Dean, his face buried in his shoulder and his hands clinging tightly to his t-shirt, but Dean hasn't slept a wink, too busy staring blankly at the back of his father's head, like if he stares long enough, maybe he can understand and see what he's thinking. It doesn't matter how long he stares, though, because his father's about as readable as a brick wall, and that hasn't changed for hours.

Dean isn't exactly sure what he expects when Dad flings open the back door on Dean's side of the car, but being handed the keys to the only home they've ever known is far from the images playing out at the forefront of his mind. He's expecting to be hauled from the car maybe, screamed at, punched, hell, anything but that way Dad pushes the keys into Dean's hand like they've burned him.

"Dad?" Dean questions, praying his voice doesn't sound to his father as confused and hurt as it does to his own ears when his fingers close over the warm metal, barely able to wrap his mind around it.

"Meet me at the Mountain View Hotel in the next town. I'll be there as soon as I can," is the only response their father gives before he walks off towards the car lot office, his duffle bag hoisted over his shoulder and his back to the Impala and Dean.

He's in a stupor for a few moments, the sharp edge of the keys biting into his fingers as he stares after his dad's retreating back in pure wonder before Sam breaks him out of his thoughts, Sam's hands clenching his t-shirt too tightly, cutting off his air supply.

"Dean?" he asks, worry heavy in his tone.

Dean just smiles wide as he lets the key ring slide over his index finger and twirls the keys around, giddiness rising up in him as he looks down at his younger brother, still curled up against his side. "Sammy," he starts, knowing he's grinning like mad, and unable to stop himself, even though it's making Sam retreat ever so slightly to the other side of the car, nervousness clear as day in his body language, "I think that's the closest Dad's ever going to get to giving us his blessing."

Sam obviously understands the weight and meaning of the whole thing, of the freedom currently wrapped around Dean's finger, because he pulls Dean down for a scorching kiss before he pushes Dean out the open car door and says, "Well, then you better get driving, because I've always wanted to fuck you over the hood of the Impala on some deserted back road."

Dean can't get into the driver's seat fast enough, stupid giddy smile unable to leave his face, even when Sam elbows him in the nose trying to climb over the seat.


	2. Epilogue

Dean doesn't know how it came to this.

He definitely doesn't expect it, but still, it's happening just the same: he and Sam are crushed into the front seat of the Impala with Sam's mouth around his dick.

It seems like a dream, it was so long ago the last time they did anything about this, and he can tell from the way Sam's tongue goes still and he can see the creases between his eyebrows, his brother deep in concentration, that Sam's pretty rusty at this. He's not sure, though, whether to feel disappointed that maybe getting head won't be as fun as it used to be -- after all, Dean hasn't met too many people who could deep-throat him -- or be happy that Sam obviously hasn't done this with a guy _since_ Dean.

Dean can't really help the snort of laughter that forces its way out of his lungs when Sam tries to take him all the way down without much thought, then pretty quickly gags and coughs before he pulls back with a look of honest surprise on his face. Sam doesn't remark to Dean's bout of laughter, just leans down, glare obvious in his eyes before he takes the head of Dean's cock back in his mouth and nips the crown with his teeth. Dean's laughter ebbs away pretty quickly at that, with a jump of surprise and a little bit of a yelp at the feel of Sam's teeth on such a sensitive place.

Sam's eyes just look amused at they stare up at him and Dean snarls, "Brat," with his hand tangling in Sam's hair, though whether it's to encourage him or deter him from any more horseplay, he's not really sure.

Leave it to Sam, though, to completely re-master sucking cock in just a few short minutes. Sam's wet tongue is like silk against the thick vein on the underside of his cock and he's pretty sure his eyes are rolling into the back of his head every time Sam sucks. It really doesn't take long before Dean's fingers in Sam's hair are becoming more than encouraging and moving right on into demanding, trying hard to pull Sam further down onto his cock, though Sam doesn't, instead brings up his hand to stroke any part of Dean that he can't seem to stuff into his hot mouth. Dean really doesn't last long at all after that, it just takes a roll of his balls in Sam's hand and Dean's yanking on Sam's hair with a yell of warning (and Dean really wouldn't be surprised if when he pulled his hand away he was left with a huge chunk of hair in his fist) before he spurts into Sam's mouth.

He doesn't know why he's at all surprised when Sam pulls off his dick with a gagging noise and spills the contents of his mouth all down the front of Dean's jeans -- after all, it took over a month of pretty constant practice for Sam to master it the first time. Dean's pretty sure Sam hasn't had many chances to choke down some other dude's come in the few years since they've seen each other, given that Sam's never really been like Dean, he actually discriminates who he fucks or who fucks him, and he's pretty sure that Sam was never really lacking in willing girls or a wanting for anything else. He _is_ surprised, though, when come and spit (and he hopes desperately to God that that's all it is, considering Sam's pained gagging noises) splashes back over his dick. Dean might have been a little more disgusted if Sam weren't wearing a look of pure disbelief and shock on his face, like the thought of Dean coming in his mouth is a completely foreign concept to him.

Eventually Sam's shock turns to embarrassment, and Dean can't help the smile that breaks out on his face when Sam looks up at him, a little sheepish as he tries in vain to wipe his jizz off the front of Dean's jeans with his t-shirt. Dean just grabs onto Sam's wrist and yanks him forward, stopping the mopping of come and drags Sam's lips to his, content in tasting his own come still clinging to Sam's lips.

When they pull back, Sam's face rests heavy against the side of his neck, his brother crowded into his personal space, teeth lightly nipping at his flesh as he says, "Wanted you to fuck me, but I guess it's too late now."

Even though Sam's voice is a little miserable and put-out, Dean can't help the moan that escapes from the idea of fucking Sam, just like Sam can't seem to stop the way he grinds his hard cock against the jut of Dean's hip despite his tone. It would probably only be hotter if they were both actually anywhere near naked -- not just with his dick hanging out of his jeans and Sam's chest bare -- and Dean didn't keep repeatedly banging his funny bone against the car horn every time Sam's coarse jeans created friction over his over-sensitive cock.

"Fuck," Dean whispers, Sam's mouth leaving a hot trail of saliva against his neck, taking the hint at Dean's admission and sucking a bruise into his tender flesh while his hand works its way between their bodies to free his cock, letting it slide naked against Dean's, still hanging limp and tender between his legs.

Except, something isn't right. There's something wrong with the way the head of Sam's dick slides wet against his skin. His suspicions are confirmed when he pushes Sam up from the place where he's nestled against Dean's chest and wraps one hand around his brother's dick, fingers feeling for the familiar hole at the base, but finding nothing but smoothed over skin and scrolling veins.

Sam's only response is to go still and stare up at Dean with guilty eyes, which, Dean admits, looks a little ridiculous and still somehow very hot with his dick hanging out of his pants with that deer-in-the-headlights expression. For a second, Dean actually considers letting it go, really wanting to just kiss that guilty look right the fuck off his younger brother's face, but he can't. He just doesn't understand. After all, Sam told him, years ago, that getting it fixed wasn't important to him, and now here he sits with a perfectly acceptable, run-of-the-mill penis (although it is definitely huge compared to normal, which makes Dean wonder if he should have asked if Sammy wanted a penis reduction when he asked about the hypospadias, although Dean thinks he might miss it if it shrank).

"You got it fixed?" Dean asks, stupidly blurting it out as he pushes Sam up so he can sit up and stare down at his little brother. His fingertips still haven't left the weeping slit though, and Sam shudders in pleasure as he tries to obey, his mouth hanging open a little, looking torn between pushing Dean back down to find some friction and trying hard to collect his thoughts and move away.

In the end, will-power wins and Sam starts to explain himself, prying Dean's fingers off his dick so he really can sit up and move to the other side of the car.

"I had to," Sam starts, not looking at Dean, "It was just weird, trying to sleep with anyone else. I was always afraid that they were laughing later, behind my back, you know? And then I met Jess..." Sam trails off, and Dean can tell by the look on his face that clearly Sam's reliving some memories of his dead ex-girlfriend. Dean really wants nothing more than to curl his fingers around the back of Sam's neck and pulls Sam's lips against his, make him forget about Jessica, about hurting, but he can't, because this is important. He needs to know why.

"I thought if I got it fixed, maybe things would be different with Jess. I thought that maybe it would help me forget you." Sam murmurs the last bit, looking younger and more innocent than Dean's seen him look in years, and Dean can't help the way his fingers flit out to stroke down Sam's cheekbone before he catches himself and pulls away.

"Did it work?" he inquires instead, really hoping he's not as transparent as he feels, more afraid that he'll frighten Sam away with his stupid need for Sam's approval, and maybe the tad bit of jealousy he feels (jealousy caused by a woman that died over a month ago, Dean's pretty sure that's a new low, even for him), than the actual answer Sam might give. Maybe it's because Sam's here with him now, his dick still hard and red in his jeans, but he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

"I thought you didn't do touchy-feely, chick-flick moments," Sam says, emotions quickly shifting from the raw look of only moments ago to an amused smirk, and Dean's sure this conversation is over according to Sam and Dean's just going to have to live with thinking his answer is right.

Dean holds back a sigh of frustration, but figures Sam's entitled to his secrets if he really wants them, besides it's not like Dean doesn't have a few of his own to keep, he's pretty sure, though, that he can't keep the look of disappointment off of his face, even when he rolls his eyes and says, "Smartass," with an affectionate ruffle of Sam's hair.

"I learned from the best," Sam tells him with a wide grin before he leans over, closing the distance between them before his slick tongue invades Dean's mouth, wrapping his hand around Dean's dick, trying to bring him back to hardness.

"Want you to fuck me, Sammy," Dean says against Sam's lips, moving slick and hot against them. "Wanna remember what it's like when you come inside me, like that last day we spent at Bobby's." Dean's teeth catch on Sam's ear, tugging it lightly as Sam pants against Dean's neck, his hand still stroking Dean's cock, working it into hardness.

"God yes," Sam breathes out just before his teeth bite into Dean's corded neck muscles. "Never got to fuck you over the hood of the Impala."

And God, if his dick weren't trying to stiffen up before, it definitely is now, standing on end as Sam slides back to the other side of the car and throws open the car door.

It doesn't take much for Dean to wriggle out of his jeans (only falling over once when they get caught on his ankle) before Sam's pushing him facedown onto the Impala's hood, overheated from the midday sun and the rumble of the engine. It scorches Dean's skin when Sam fits against him, huge cock sliding over his ass-crack, but he doesn't care, too caught up in the way Sam's body feels, all hard muscles and power, and Dean's never known that he loved it so much when Sam pushed him down.

Sam barely prepares him, and there's not nearly enough lube so that it doesn't hurt, but Dean doesn't mind the ripping feeling going through his backside when Sam's cock pushes past the resistance of his body, one hand braced on the hood next to Dean's head, and Dean doesn't resist sliding his fingers over Sam's, lacing them together as Sam seats himself fully inside.

He won't lie and say that it feels the same, that the push and pull is exactly how he remembers Sam, because it's not, it's too much like every other guy he's slept with since Sam left, too normal; but when Sam leans forward, one arm wrapped around Dean's waist to reach around for his dick, he can feel Sam's heartbeat pressed against his back, feel Sam's sweat dropping onto his skin like little kisses. Dean thinks he might have never felt anything so erotic in his life, Sam's thrusts in beat with his heart, _beat beat thrust beat beat thrust_ , and fuck if Dean isn't panting like a fucking lapdog beneath him, begging for more. He can't get enough.

It feels different, sure, but there's still something so fundamentally Sammy about the whole thing that Dean can't help the way his body tenses, milking Sam of his orgasm as he shakes through his.

They're lying there for a moment afterwards -- both breathing harder than they'd like to admit, considering neither of them really lasted that long -- with Sam's arms around Dean's waist, his softening cock still in the glove of Dean's body when Sam says it.

"It didn't work."

It takes Dean's sex-addled brain a few minutes to catch up, because he's about to open his mouth and say something stupid like, 'I'm pretty sure that's your come in my ass, I'd say it works,' except, before he can make a complete idiot out of himself, Sam speaks again, his teeth scraping lightly against the flesh of Dean neck as he does.

"I couldn't forget about you."

Dean's pretty sure Sam will forgive him when he forces his younger brother out of his body so that he can turn on the Impala's hood and let his fingers curl in the short hairs on the back of Sam's neck, bringing their lips crashing together.

 

END.


End file.
